


The Legacy of Devektra

by calcalore



Category: The Lorien Legacies - Pittacus Lore
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brainwashing, Devektra is evil, Devektra lives, Devektra!lives, F/M, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Redemption, evil Devektra, evil!Devektra, villian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 22:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 23,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13176852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcalore/pseuds/calcalore
Summary: This is the legacy of Devektra, the once up-and-coming Loric popstar, now the Mogadorian's number one weapon, recounting her time on Earth, her surprising encounters with the last of the Loric, and her inevitable demise.





	1. Prologue Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because Devektra has the canon characterization of a used napkin, I decided to write her her own lost file. And because I love angst and pain, I made it a brainwashing AU, featuring narratives not only from Devektra, but also Setrakus Ra and Sandor. 
> 
> It's written so that it doesn't interfere with canon, so technically it could be true. It helps if you're familiar with the events of the lost files "Nine's Legacy" and "The Last Days of Lorien," because there's a lot of Easter eggs and quote references and someone better appreciate them. 
> 
> Shoutout to Jay for helping me come up with creative curse words. You get a shoutout in ch. 4. Or at least it was ch. 4 while I was writing it. Not sure what it will end up as.
> 
> Check out this mock lost file cover I made for it too: http://gisabarrow.tumblr.com/post/169029211152/this-is-the-legacy-of-devektra-the-up-and-coming

_Phase 1: Reassignment_

**Day 1. **

 

Setrakus Ra paces up and down the polished floors of the Anubis, his steps heavy and cold as he looks down on what soon would be his inevitable victory. Through the glass, he watches a world disintegrate to bone and ash.

A world that was once his in another lifetime.

But that world refused change, and now it must pay the price of destruction. What does not progress suffers extinction.

Setrakus Ra could have called it a battle, but that meant either sides stood a chance of victory. The truth is, there was no power strong enough to halt Mogadorian Progress now.

It's utterly illogical when word arrives from the front speaking of that very power.

* * *

 

News made way to the Beloved Leader about a potentially fatal resistance in the city. Allegedly, this Garde had singlehandedly taken out the 501st and the 106th battalion. Whether rumors of her were embellished or not, he didn’t know. All that was certain was that she showed no signs of stopping.

The very fact that a single Garde could overpower legions of his soldiers was simply impossible. The fact that his people even considered this a threat was enough to make The Beloved Leader almost kill the messenger out of pure rage.

“What do you  mean you haven’t secured the city yet?!” he bellows, shaking the starship to its very interworkings.

It's almost easy to pity the Mogadorian scout who was bringing the news. He was fresh off the Vat, so-to-speak, explaining why he could have been spared from the front lines. And even though the Vat-born weren't known for their brain, he's smart enough to know his next words could be his last. Setrakus Ra was an unpredictable monster, an unyeilding dictator. It the reason the Mogadorians respected him so much, and the reason his enemies quivered at the though of Ra's name.

“Sorry sir," the scout continues. Our troops are doing their best. The General said he’d…  underestimated… the resistance they’d face-”

Setrakus doesn't let him finish. “WHAT do you  _mean_..."  his voice is slow, purring with rage, "you  _ underestimated _ it?" His rage explodes. "This has been in the workings for years, the entire planet was taken by surprise, and now you have the gall to say our invasion could be compromised by one Garde?!”

“Well... She’s uh… Like nothing we’ve ever encountered before sir… We weren’t prepared for-”

“Do NOT speak another word to me regarding this creature!!” The glass windows shake with the weight of his voice. It was a voice made for crowds and battlefields, a voice made to rock even the most fearsome enemy to his bones. Within a confined space, it was a wonder more damage hadn’t been done.

The scout cringes, and sucks in a breathe for what he knows is his final moment. The Beloved Leader had to take out this failure on someone.

But the blow doesn’t come. The Mogadorian keeps his eyes shut for a few moments longer than necessary, refusing to believe that he has been spared. When he looks up, Setrakus Ra is pacing next to the enourmous window, overlooking the ever darkening Lorien with a suddenly inexplicable measure of self-control.

Smoke rises from the fallen planet, and Setrakus Ra continues. “If you and your troops are incapable of handling this petty fight..." his voice is surprisingly dignified. "...then perhaps it merits my involvement. I shall deal with the Garde myself. She may prove to be a valuable asset with some…  _persuasion_."


	2. Prologue Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mogs are on the way to Earth yo

_Phase 2. Reassembling._  

** Day 203.  **

 

Setrakus Ra stands as a silhouette against the galaxies. His presence is an overwhelming shadow framed by ever-moving constellations, like a conqueror sailing through a sea of stars to his next new world.

It was a well-known fact that The Beloved Leader spent most of his days here, in the enourmous underbelly of the gargantuan warship Anubis. The room is the length of several football fields, the size of the ship itself, and surrounded by glass on almost every side. He was rarely disturbed here, as news only came when it was of the utmost importance.

Setrakus hears the messenger before he enters, unfortunately tearing him from his reverie. Noise bounces off the cold metal and steel easily, making even whispers scream. Judging from his gait, the Messenger is small, young, and nervous, stumbling every third step and taking shallow breaths. He finally breaks through the other side of the room, pathetically attempting to hide his unease.

“Excuse me, Sir. The asset has compromised containment..." he hesitates to catch his breath before adding the last word. “Again.”

The immense shadow against the glass shifts, almost imperceptibly, as Setrakus Ra turns away from his galaxies to address his servant.

“Wipe her. Destroy what resistance there is, and start over." His answer is mild, as if the solution was obvious to begin with.

There’s a small pause before the a reply comes, a shaking voice filled with doubt.

“Sir… The long term effects of the injections… We don’t know how much more the subject can withstand.”

Setrakus Ra closes the hundreds of yards between them in a heartbeat, so fast the Mogadorian would have though he teleported.

That was, if he could think at all with The Beloved Leader's forearm against the his throat. He hardly registers what has happened until he's sputtering for air, and Setrakus Ra is disgusted by his slow reflexes. Even though the Vat-Born is large, a staggering 9 feet tall, he is nothing compared to the monster before him.

“Do you think… I care… What happens to this Loric scum?” He smashes his other fist against the wall, denting the metal beneath.“Nothing will stop our progress. I need to know if she is of any value to us!!”

If the Mogadorian didn’t fear for his life before, he does now. The tyrant in front of him hardly seems to notice.

“Ab- absolutely sir. I’ll inform the department head right away.”

Setrakus glares for a moment longer than necessary, and then, pleased with his intimidation efforts, releases the scout from his foul clutches.

Straighting his black tunic, the Mogadorian leader continues. “I would like to visit the subject. Tomorrow. After her erasure.” The scout nods.

“I do not wish to be disappointed again. I shall hold you responsible that everyone is prepared…” He turns back to face the window on the other side of the room, thousands of stars twinkling as the Anubis parades through the space, drawing ever closer to the Garde's last stronghold.

Earth. Another new world for him go conquer.

“You’re dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

“The tests reveal a 61% compliance rate, with deviation at 39%. Vitals weaken after each injection, warranting artificial sedation.”

“And what of her memory?” Setrakus Ra had no use for the details.

“Ah yes, I have some good news there,” the Mogadorian says, rubbing her chin. Her white lab coat was spotted with stains of varying color. Some were fresh, but most looked crusty and old, as if the scientist hadn’t washed the coat since she’d first received it in the Academy. “The months of work are finally bringing some progress. Artificial memory has been reliable 89% of the time. The subject shows no recognition at her former name, and displays confusion when shown pictures of her former home.”

“And her legacies?”

“Well, thanks to you, Beloved Leader, her Legacies are in an indefinite hibernation. Once compliance has reached 100%, her training will begin.”

Setrakus mulls over this for a few seconds, enough to make the already-on-edge science department head squirm. “And I trust you have solved yesterday’s containment issue.”

Although the doctor is pleased with her own progress, she knows better than to expect praise from the Beloved Leader.

“Yes indeed. Reinforced walls, added surveillance, and stronger sedatives have done the trick. She’s a fighter, that one.”  Setrakus stares through the one way glass, to a figure in chains.

“Not for long.” Perhaps if he stepped in himself, progress could be expedited.

“When can we arrange a face to face session?”

The scientist, although she looks like he hasn’t slept in days, smiles. “I thought you might ask that. Today, is the answer. I’ve prepared the subject, and she is awaiting your arrival,” she says, smoothing out the edges of her lab coat.

“Excellent.” And then Setrakus Ra, ever the vision of politeness and manners, walks out of the door without even waiting for a response.

 

* * *

 

The incessant flickering of the florescent lighting is the least unsettling aspect asset containment.

Dried stains of various color paint the walls, a seemingly appealing break from the stark white of the room, a beautiful tye-dyed mural of overlapping dark browns, reds, greens, yellows. It was almost pleasant- at least until you thought of where those stains probably originated from.

In the middle of the room was a drain that served many purposes, no doubt. On the far left wall there was a door, adjacent to the one way glass Setrakus had been standing on the opposite side of moments ago. And facing the door was a set of full-body chains, enormously cumbersome, slightly rusted, and currently occupied.

“ _Weapon X._ ”

The being in front of him stirs, but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I trust you know who I am.”

The figure nods ever slightly, still hanging limply from the chains.

“Rise.” His voice, however commanding, didn’t move her to action. The buzzing lights are the only sound in a room for a few moments, and Setrakus Ra loses his patience. 

“ **Rise**!” he bellows.

The woman is jolted from her reverie and stands up straight, her left foot bearing more weight then her right.

One of her shoulders looked dislocated, and her right ankle was bent at an odd angle. Her arms and wrists bore heavy black scars. Powder white hair littered the floor, fallen or torn out, he didn’t know. Nor did he care.

Black-eyed, busted lip, nearly bald, scratched and scathed, but still striking. She held her head high, something any injection or torture technique could never take away.

A fine warrior she was going to make.

“Beloved Leader,” she says, clear and strong.

Setrakus can’t help but admire the doctor’s work. Only a few months ago, this garde was one of the strongest of her species. The Devektra, as one of the Loric vermin had phrased it. And now…

Setrakus steps closer to look at his creation, a mere 6 inches away from her cheek.

But perhaps he had overestimated the scientists’ progress, or underestimated her strength of spirit, because something snaps behind the girl’s eyes. It was like he crossed an invisible barrier, allowing her to see clearly who he really was.

She lunges out for him, knowing it’s impossible despite her bonds. I’m an instant, she’s gone completely feral- biting, kicking, screeching, struggling to grasp something, anything, and everything.

Setrakus almost falls back out of shock, out of her reach, but quickly regains his composure, aware of the others watching.

“Sedative,” a mechanical voice says over the loudspeakers.

Five Mogadorians in white containment suits rush in the room. Four have to hold her back while one injects a vile of black liquid into her neck. Setrakus watches, carefully with narrowed eyes. For a moment, you can see the veins under her almost translucent skin darken as the contents of the vile spill into her bloodstream. But then her body goes slack in the chains, and she slumps back down.

One of the Mogadorians goes to pop her shoulder back into place, but Setrakus Ra waves him off.

“Leave it,” he orders.

“Yes sir,” the Mogadorian nods and exits the room with the others. The bone continues to protrude underneath her skin. Setrakus Ra turns to face the two-sided window, where a crowd of doctors and scientists have been observing the entire encounter. Now they await his next command.

Without hesitation, he orders, “I want the asset ready by the time we land.”


	3. Prologue Pt. 3

_Phase 3: Deployment_

**Day 303.**

 

_ Are you ready to accept your mission? _

Ice blue eyes flash open to white light.

The cold air stings as she sucks in a breath through her teeth. It's a sharp contrast to the gelatinous substance that has been filling her lungs for weeks. Her whole body is heavy, shaking off the effects of its hibernation.

She glances down at her hands, black veins swimming beneath the scarred skin, and clenches them in a fist. Euphoria surges through her body, each muscle flooding with newfound power. This is what true strength feels like. The very thought that she once believed she knew what it was is laughable.

She is the first of the Mogadorian people to experience Setrakus Ra's augmentations, an immense honor that will shape the course of history. Now the time has come to show the world what the Beloved Leader is capable of.

She's woken up at the bottom of a vast tub, much larger than the ones used for vat born breeding. The walls are smeared with leftover of black ooze, and now she realizes the voice must have been speaking telepathically. Only stark walls, much brighter than white it seems, greet her as she stands and surveys the room.

The tub reaches almost all way to the ceiling, so climbing out isn't an option. But there's a door in the right corner, a table beside it with some sort of black fabric on top. And the cameras. They're always watching her.

She doesn't mind. Her power deserves an audience.

With the back of her hand, she gently grazes the smooth glass encasing her. When her hand falls, a girl with short, powder white hair stares back at her, Mogadorian tattoos peaking out from the corner of her bangs. And then the world goes to black as she shuts eyes to concentrate.

The icy glass is thick and cumbersome, some would say impenetrable. Not to her. 

She erupts in a high-pitched hum, manipulating the sound waves to search for the correct frequency. And then,

The glass suddenly cracks.

She smiles, knowing what's about to happen. With that, she launches into a piercing shriek, bouncing her voice across the room, throwing it at the particles within the glass, bending them to her will. Even the concrete walls of the room show signs of crumbling.

Unable to withstand the scream, the tub shatters, shards of glass chaotically raining down like snowflakes in a storm. She uses her telekinesis to shield herself from the debris, something that had become second nature to her long ago, and walks toward a table next to the door, which houses a black silicon bodysuit and combat boots.

_ Impressive _ , the voice in her head returns. She recognizes it as her leader, Setrakus Ra, the only other person in the universe capable of initiating a conversation with her his way.

_ Preparations are being made to land. He continues.  Your time has come Weapon X. Together, Daughter, we will hunt the last of the Garde and accomplish true Mogadorian progress . _

She zips up the body suit, taking his words in. Her months of training have prepared her for the days to come. She will find the Garde and destroy them all. She will make her Beloved Leader proud.

_ I am ready . _


	4. Chapter 1

**Day 2,128**

**Years on Earth: 5**

 

In her mind, she calls herself Dev.

The Mogadorians have no use for these pretty nicknames. To them, she is soldier, asset, weapon x, or more curtly, x. No one needs a name when you can have a title. Names are people; people are temporary. Titles last forever. Titles leave a legacy.

And that it what they think she has become: a title. Not a person, a thing. A legacy. The whispers of what Weapon X have done and will do crawl through Mogadorian ranks, find their place among nightly bedtime stories, and become a very convincing means of motivation for parents with insubordinate children. There isn't a single Mogadorian who hasn't heard of X's countless successes. Mission after mission, battle after battle, her legacy follows her wherever she goes. Failure is unheard of, unaccounted for.

But the truth is, a legacy is a heavy burden.

Someone cannot be more than they are, even if everyone believes it. In the world, there is belief, and there is fact, and Setrakus Ra's mistake was that he believed a person could be more than a person.

The truth is, when there are no assignments to complete or targets to acquire or kills to add to her legacy, she is useless. X is useless.

They believe they have stripped her of her personhood, but the truth is, they've only hidden it from her.

So she's forced becomes something else. Unbeknownst to the Mogadorians who have given her a legacy, she has given herself a name, unable to shoulder the persona X demands her to be.

Being a name is weak, but she doesn't care. She doesn't know why or how the name Dev came to her. But it fits her. It feels like her. Dev didn't exist when they landed on Earth. Dev didn't even exist the days, weeks, and months after. Dev came years after Setrakus Ra's augmentations, years after she was remade, sprouting through her mind like weeds between sidewalk cracks, until one day she looked in the mirror and realized she wasn't what everyone thought she was.

Dev is something else entirely. Not given to her, something she created. Something to fill the empty moments after the missions and after the battles.

* * *

Although her legacy wholeheartedly believes in Mogadorian progress, Dev does as well. After all, she's never had reason to question Setrakus Ra, the man who gave her everything. With every fiber of her being, she believes in the Beloved Leader, her Beloved Leader.

Until California.

It happens on an assignment. 4 years after her arrival on Earth, she's sent to Los Angeles to investigate possible whereabouts about the first Garde, Number One. And she's come alone. The pale Mogadorians stick out like daisies in a desert in comparison to the tan, laid-back beachgoers of Southern California. With her athletic figure, pale blonde hair, and intricate tattoos tracing the outlines of her neck, she almost blends in with these people. Some of them may even consider her attractive.

Like she, the second most powerful being in the universe, would go for any of these beach bums.

In the shade of a palm tree, she sits on a bench facing the beach. While it looks like she's staring out at the waves, she's really grazing the minds of passing joggers, bikers, and tourists for any information on the Loric.

She happens to be reliving the memory of a disappointing hoagie that one biker had for lunch when one of the aforementioned beach bums slides next to her on the bench.

Shirtless, scrawny, and reeking of booze, he runs a sandy hand through his long hair before turning to her with an overly friendly smile. "Nice tatts," he says, in the cliche Californian accent.

When she doesn't reply, he leans back on the bench and stretches his scraggly arms out, just brushing her shoulder with the tips of his fingers.

"I'm Jay," he continues, obviously not taking the hint. "I gotta say, I'm a big fan of the whole, blonde-hair-blue-eyes thing you got goin' on."

Now, the ruthless soldier Setrakus Ra made would have rummaged through this human's mind, seen his plans to go smoke weed after this, and left before he got a word out. But for some reason she couldn't place, she had stayed and listened to his hilarious pick-up attempt.

And before she can think about the merits of a conversation with this sun-bleached hippie, she surprises herself and replies.

"Well, there's a reason I'm here alone: to stay away from the big fans."

Jay mumbles something before sulking away, but she is too shocked to even process his response. Her response is what she was concerned about. She replied with a wit and sass she never knew existed. Where that came from, she had no idea. X would have ignored and overlooked Jay, but she engaged and toyed with him. It felt so natural and effortless. She was speechless the rest of the day, but only one question ran through her mind:

What else was she capable of?

X didn't choose to say those words, Dev did. And she loved it.

She comes back from that mission thinking about only one thing: choice. She can't remember a time she didn't choose something other than what the Beloved Leader wanted her to. It felt indescribably freeing to do something of her own initiative. And while she had believed in Mogadorian progress, isn't choice at the core of belief?

After that day, she needed to find a reason to believe in Setrakus Ra. She choose to be Dev, and now she wants to choose to be X, his weapon, his right hand.

* * *

She is ashamed as the weeks go on as she can't find a reason to choose. She should have every reason to worship the Beloved Leader. He saved her from a dying race, made her stronger, gave her purpose again. He made her into a Legacy.

When her people apprehend Number One in Malaysia, she doesn't share in their celebration. The entire mission of the Mogadorian race seems laughably easy: infiltrate a vastly-undeveloped planet and kill 9 frightened children. What's it all for? Just another planet to be added to Setrakus Ra's repertoire of resources? Then what? What happens when this is all over?

The weeks after Number One's capture prove uneventful. She is given no immediate assignment after California, the euphoria of finally killing a Garde after so many years slowing the progress of her people. Setrakus would obviously not approve of this lapse, but he's attending to other matters across the globe.

It's times like these when X is purposeless. She trains, studies language, perfects Earth customs, making herself into a better weapon for the Mogadorian war on Earth. But the days after One's death worry her, when the fervor of searching recedes for even the smallest moment.

It's in those idle moments she crumbles. What will happen at the end of all this, when their are no more missions and no more battles? When all her studies and training is rendered useless? She's spent her entire life supporting Ra's expansion, building herself into a asset that will be useless in a matter of years. What does a soldier do without a war?

She could be Dev, she thinks briefly, before instantly rejecting the idea. The Mogadorians have no place for personality.

Of course, no one knows of her internal conflict. Outside, she is the perfect weapon, the title everyone expects her to be. Inside, she is alone. Surrounded by troops, battalions, thousands of Mogadorians, known to a few, revered by most, and feared by all, she is an idea to them, not a person. She is X.

This shame she's feeling has no place in her world. When she receives her next mission, Vancouver, Canada, she's relieved to once again become the weapon they want her to be, to have a purpose again. And so Dev is confined to the crevices of her mind, and X takes over.


	5. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol pain

**Day 2,135**

 

The flash bombs go off first.

One of the Mogadorian soldiers in front her lets out a string of curses before a second bomb turns him and his partner to chalky ash.

_Shit._

While she still searches for a reason to personally believe in Setrakus Ra's manifesto, she has no issue hunting his pawns for him in the meantime. It's what she's trained to do best. After a week spent surveilling her targets- male, dark hair, in his early twenties, and a preteen with Loric symbols carved in his calf- she was confident in their naïvety of their true situation. Anyone willing to side with the Loric in this war obviously doesn't have the best sense of self-awareness. They were hilariously outmatched, and that stupidity likely stretched to other situations. That's why the Mogadorians would track down all the Garde. That's why they would win.

Maybe her overconfidence served as a downfall in this particular instance, because if it weren't for the vat-borns acting as a living shield in front of her, she would have been killed. That must have been why they sent 4 soldiers with her, the greatest weapon this planet has ever seen. She had taken it as an insult, attributing it to the Mogadorians' blind belief in brute force, but now she recognizes it as a protection. Toy soldiers who would run headstrong into a situation while she could hold back and assess.

Flattening herself against the hallway wall, she unsheathes her sword. Although she prefers using her Legacies in a fight, an ability her opponents have never shared, she has taken to using the long, gleaming Mogadorian swords common to high-ranking Trueborns. It's an impressive intimidator. And she does admire the way it shines when it's covered in blood.

The pulsing white light is disarmed with a mere wave of her hand, and she advances into the smoke-filled motel room, stifling a cough. Even though her visibility is limited, the previous days spent memorizing the layout of the motel room mean she can easily move through it without her vision.

The only exit points were a window to her right, which had been shut and locked before their assault began, and the door, which was in chunks behind her. Straight ahead, her eyes just barely catch movement in the bathroom through the smoke.

It's almost hilarious that the door is wide open. You'd think if you were a desperate Cepan trying to conceal your Garde, you would at least lock the door.

Nonetheless, she approaches the bathroom slowly, refusing to repeat the situation with the flash bombs. If she had underestimated them before, it wasn't going to happen again. Squinting through the murky air, she makes out two shadows, both cowering on the bathroom floor.

She stops her forward advance to laugh.

"Now THAT'S funn-" she begins to say, but it's cut off by the sound of an automatic rifle.

She dives to the side behind the bed, out of sight from the doorway, cursing herself again for almost getting killed. The Loric weren't total dumbasses. Her usual focus and drive during a mission was giving way to sarcastic comments and over-the-top showmanship. (She had down a double backflip off the roof the other day- telling herself it was to intimidate her new unit, who were watching her with wide eyes- but now in the midst of a gunfight it does seem a bit unnecessary.)

This wasn't the first time Dev had interfered with one of X's assignments. It was getting harder and harder to confine this persona to her solitary moments. Her natural and artificial selves war with each other, and with each passing day, it feels like she is becoming more of Dev and less of X.

The gunshots draw the attention of the other two Mogadorians in the hallway. She watches them edge closer to the doorway, unsure of what the hell is going on. Right now, it just looks like a gun floating in midair fighting arbitrarily. It's impossible to see who's firing with little to no visibility.

The smoke needs to disappate. For all she knows, the Garde could be escaping right now among the chaos.

Still hidden from behind the bed, she concentrates on pushing the smoke out using her telekinesis. It's a stretch, moving air particles with your mind, but it's her only option.

Closing her eyes and taking a slow breathe in, she pushes her immediate surroundings out of her mind to focus. The bullets hitting drywall, the car alarms shrieking in the parking lot, even the angered arguing of her two remaining soldiers go silent in her mind as she clears the room.

30 seconds later, the firing stops. And of course, the idiot Mogadorians mistake that to mean that the coast is clear. But she knows better. If the Loric were making a run for it, they would have done it already in the chaos of their arrival.

The room is eerily silent, daring her and her soldiers to advance. Whoever has the gun is waiting.

With the smoke out of the picture, the Cepan can see clear from the bathroom to the other end of the room and down the hallway. As soon as the Vat-Borns peak their head around the corner, he takes out her team in the blink of an eye. Dust coats the burnt orange carpets of this grungy motel.

It's amazing that Mogadorians literally MADE FOR combat can be taken out before the fight even starts. She was always better alone anyways.

From her spot behind the bed, those in the bathroom can't see her. She peaks up past the sheets and can't believe her eyes. The rifle isn't being held by the Cepan, as she suspected, but is instead attached to the bottom of a remote-controlled helicopter. Unbelievable.

That means the Loric were still tucked away in the bathroom, probably trusting their machines to take out the threat. They would have been right had they assumed a traditional assault squad had been sent. They would have been right had they assumed Setrakus Ra was a complete fool. They would have been right if they didn't send her.

It was time to end this.

Her eyes trained on the helicopter, she throws it against the motel wall with her telekinesis, effectively reducing it to a pile of scrap metal.

And, just for good measure, she grabs the bedframe with her mind and flips it across the room- mattress, blankets, and all. She tells herself it's to intimidate the Loric- as those in the bathroom would only see the bed flying past the door- but she knows better.

This is Dev.

As the bed crashes into the wall with an enormously satisfying crack, she thinks she hears a hushed "holy shit."

Grabbing her sword once again, she leisurely strolls over to the doorway. There's no hiding any more. She twirls the weapon in her hand and smiles and the wide-eyed Garde and his soon-to-be-dead Cepan. Another mission completed, another target crossed off, another kill added to her legacy. Maybe things could work out, adding a bit of Dev into X's life. Maybe the two could morph into something else, and all this doubt would work itself out little by little with each passing assignment.

But such optimistic thoughts instantly turn of ash as soon as she meets the Cepan's eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

One look and the air is ripped from her lungs. Her vision blurs at the edges, and her fingertips go numb as they curl around the blade of her sword.

And she doesn't know why.

It's like her mind is screaming at the sight of him, this Cepan she's never met before. Of course, she'd been watching him the days leading up to the mission. But only now could she see his eyes, a faint mossy green, blinking back at her in the same stupor she wore. Something like recognition clawed at the back of her throat. Thousands of words were struggling to escape from her lips, their sheer syllables to numerous to utter. Her mind swirled with thought, scanning every crevice of memory for his face.

She knew him. She swore she knew him.

But she didn't.

And yet, just looking at his face filled the machine she was with warmth. Only a person was supposed to have emotion, but her head was thrashing about with feeling. It was like a fight scene in one of those old-timey cartoons: smoke and sparks and stars and colors. X, the greatest asset in the universe, was being stripped away by a single gaze.

She manages to compose herself enough to keep a defensive stance. Thank Ra she didn't drop her sword, or given any other visible sign of her internal disintegration. Muscles clenched and shaking, she had to wills herself into movement. She has an assignment, and X always completes her assignments.

Tearing away her gaze, she turns her attention to the boy. She lunges forward to grab the Garde, careful not to disturb the Loric curse protecting him. Just as her fingertips brush his neck, the world goes white. She staggers back, clutching her cheek.

The Cepan punched her in the face.

How did she not see that coming?

She can't look at him. She can't. She needs to focus, and she's certain he's still shaking off the shock of their greeting as well. So she forces herself into action with a loud grunt and brings her sword into an attack position, aiming for the Cepan's neck. Better to end this before it starts.

He surprises her again, meeting her swing with a dagger of his own. She gasps, stunned by the sudden resistance, but turns her surprise into anger. Anger is power, and power is something she can use.

Again she shifts her weight and slashes at his other side, but he's recovered and ready for her. The boy slips away, and X notices but ignores it, currently occupied fighting the Cepan. With a speed unlike any she's fought against before, he deflects blow after blow. There's no way he could ever gain the upper hand with a weapon that dwarfs in comparison to hers, but so far it's done a superb job of keeping him alive. A closer inspection of it tells her it's not from earth. Clear, shining, almost diamond-like. He probably got it from-

Her eyes would widen in realization. The chest! The Loric chest issued to every Garde. That explained why it held up to her weapon. How could she have forgotten about it? It HAD to be in the motel room. She was certain that's what the Garde was going for.

She had to get to him. If the boy AND his chest got away while she was distracted with the Cepan, then her mission would be a failure.

She's picturing the motel room in her mind, considering possible locations to hide a chest when the cepan slams her head against the wall. She curses herself yet again for dropping her focus. Bone fractures as her skull meets the drywall; definitely a concussion.

Gritting her teeth, she retaliates, bringing her elbow to his face. A sharp crack echoes off the tiled floors as the Cepan stumbles backwards.

She slips past him, under his arm that's holding his certainly-broken nose, and out into the bedroom, searching for the Garde. To her right, there he is, frantically peeling back one of the wall panels.

She's tackled from behind before she can take another step.

Blood drips onto her cheek as the Cepan pins her to the floor. Broken ribs shift under the weight of his knee as he presses into her diaphragm. She feels every beat of her heart hammering in her head, and it's impossible to concentrate, to even imagine using her legacies to free herself.

"Nine! Run!" the Cepan yells, desperately trying to keep her at bay as she struggles to free herself. He gasps at his mistake, but it's too late.

So this boy was lucky number Nine. Good thing she didn't go for him with the sword. That would have ended badly.

Her sword.

It was just out of reach, knocked out of her hand when she was tackled. While the Cepan's distracted ordering his Garde to escape, she struggles to muster up her telekinesis and grab it. Just as she feels her head is about to explode, the cool metal slips into her fingers.

With a cry, she slashes for the Cepan's throat. The sword connects with skin, leaving a gleaming blue trail in its wake.

The boy screams.

"Sandor no!"

 

* * *

 

 

The Cepan's body falls onto the carpet, red spilling from his neck.

Logically, the next thing that should happen is she kills him and captures the boy, once again proving true to her reputation. Once again making her people proud.

But she can't.

Her head pounds, not from the concussion, but again from the same shock that almost knocked her over when she made eye contact with the Cepan.

_Sandor._

That name. That name was clawing at her throat earlier, unable to get out, an unseen force holding back. Now it was the only thing running through her mind. A barrier she didn't know existed had shattered; a dam had crumbled, flooding her thoughts with its powerful current of three words:

She knew him. She _knew_ him.

She brings herself to her knees, but can't find the strength to get up. It's not just her injuries- she's sustained worse than this. It's the pulsing in her skull. Her whole body is coursing with an electric current, and she's frozen in place, gritting her teeth as sweat and blood flow down her face. It's like someone's taken a knife and started carving into the back of her head. She can't breathe.

_Sandor._

She wants to cry. She wants to yell. She wants to compete her mission. She wants to do something, anything but stare at the goddamn carpet. So she shuts her eyes.

Darkness doesn't follow. She feels anything but relief. Colors swirl on her eyelids, greens and purples and yellows. Her lungs burn from lack of oxygen. And then she starts to scream.

A deadly, window-shattering shriek erupts from the deepest part of her soul. She's on all fours, her hands clinging fiercely to the carpet, sweat dripping from her face, but she doesn't stop. Let the Loric escape. Let them live. Let her die. Anything to stop her head from being splitting into shards. The lightbulbs shatter at some point, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care.

_Sandor._

Where does she know that name?

As sudden as it began, her screaming stops. She's not in control of herself. She sucks in a breath, and the sharp air burns her raw throat. Darkness coats the motel room, a thick and all consuming black.

Her ears stop ringing from the scream enough to register the muffled sobs of a boy. She lifts her head just enough to see him desperately dragging his lifeless Cepan's body towards the window. Towards their freedom and her doom.

If she fails, then she is no longer a legacy. Then X no longer exists. Half of her will be useless, and she doesn't know who she'll be. 

She coughs, and blood spatters the already stained carpet.

"You're... not... leaving," she croaks out, and fights the urge to throw up.

The boy turns to her, suddenly frantic, and grabs the dagger in his Cepan's hand. He doesn't understand it's over. He's lost.

Reassembling her mind and her body piece by fragile piece, she stands. The pounding in her head intensifies, the stabbing in her skull intensifies, but she doesn't care. If she dies, it doesn't matter. She will still be a legacy. If she fails, she'll be _nothing._ Another name, lost in time.

She approaches the boy, summoning her energy for one last mission. If she can trap him, she'll be done. Eyes locked and head held high, she limps toward the Garde.

And then the unthinkable happens.

The Cepan coughs, blood bubbling in his lungs like water. The boy, to his credit, keeps his eyes trained on X. But X just looks at the Cepan. She can't take them off of him.

"You..." He stutters. He's bleeding out on this carpet. These will be his last words. His Legacy will end here, his Garde will be taken, and he will die alone. So why was he wasting his breath?

"You _know_ me," he coughs.

The stabbing in her head subsides when he talks. She knows she should cut him off, but part of her needs to know what he's about to say.

The Garde stays silent beside him, but his eyes flit to the window. Escape. She can either end this now, or listen to the dying Cepan's last words. Sandor's last words.

She stands frozen, unable to choose between X's interests or her own, Dev's.

"Dev--" he begins, softly, but it's unmistakeable. She'd have to be dead not to hear him.

"Devektra."

It's like the world pauses for a second as her brain, impaired by blood loss, struggles to make sense of the words. And he doesn't stop.

"You're Devektra. _The Devektra._ "

Something hard hits her knees. And then she's on the ground. Her fingers are slippery with blood. She vaguely remembers the Garde charging her, Sandor's knife in hand, but that memory seems distant, like it happens years ago.

Right now her mind is static, pure white noise. Disconnected from her body. She feels anything but numb. She feels like a spark, a white-hot lightning bolt striking in the pinnacle of a thunderstorm.

She watches the Cepan get up and the Garde move out the window. Their silhouettes jump, revealing a quarter full moon in their absence.

And then the world is drenched in a sea of overly-saturated color: purples, yellows, oranges, and most of all, red.


	6. Chapter 3

**Day 2,137**

 

The first thing he sees is peeling yellow wallpaper and a ceiling fan from the 1950's spinning so slow it actually makes the room stuffier.

Nine's figure is curled up tight next to him on the bed, fast asleep. One look the blood-stained sheets and at his Garde's red-tinged-hands, and Sandor is suddenly thrown back into the chaos of the past week.

Somehow they managed to escape to the nearby town of White Rock. Nine wrapped a scarf around his neck wound so tight Sandor could hardly breathe, and after 45 minutes, of driving Sandor finally passed out right as he was pulling into the parking lot of a run-down motel. Two days later, he woke up in the backseat of a minivan with a half-hazardly bandaged neck and one hell of a headache. Nine was in the passenger seat looking at him with nothing but worry.

It was too close this last time. They had been dealing with Mogs for years, but this time they almost didn't make it. Sandor almost let Nine die. He almost failed. He was surprised they even made it out.

That wasn't the only surprise in Vancouver.

What do you say to a ghost who wasn't dead? He had never been more sure of anything else: Devektra was alive. She was here, on Earth. But she was different- a shadow of the girl he once knew. He knew she would have rather died then betray her race. Her confusion on seeing him, her reluctance to kill them both, even when she had the upper hand: she had to been under the influence of something sinister. After what Setrakus Ra did to Lorien, there was no doubt in Sandor's mind that he was capable of this as well. This twisted, horrible way to still exploit the last of Lorien. Almost a decade after the extinction of their planet, Setrakus Ra was still taking it's citizens lives.

He had to fight the urge to vomit.

It took him 30 minutes before he could work up the energy to stand and exit the car. Even then, he only got through the motel doors with the help of a makeshift brace made of a metal pipe Nine found on the side of the road. The man at the front desk took one look at the ragged pair and gave them a room key as fast as he could, obviously not wanting anything to do with them as long as he got paid.

In the past four days, Sandor had fallen unconscious five times. The first was almost a full day. Now, looking down at the sleeping boy next to him, Sandor couldn't help but smile at the one good thing that had come out of his shitty life: Nine.

It was becoming more apparent each day now that He was failing as a Cepan. They had been running on Earth as long as he could remember, chased away by scouts in city after city, town after town. He needed to be better. The Mogs always caught up with him.

And so did his past, apparently. Sandor didn't know if he'd ever stop being haunted by his mistakes in last days of Lorien.

He could never forget Devektra. Her long, polka-dotted hair was gone, replaced with short, messy layers framing her face. The playful look that had once been in her eyes was nonexistent. Even the traditional Mogadorian tattoos born by their soldiers scarred the edges of her face.

But unlike any soldier he had seen, she held her head high, and stood with fierce determination. Devektra was gone on the outside, but very much alive on the inside. Her spirit was something the Mogadorians could never strip away from her. He would always remember her.

She remembered him; he knew it. The proof was in her actions. Her pause at the beginning of battle, the scream, the reaction to his name, her name. Sandor saw it all. She was still in there. She just needed to be reminded.

He briefly wonders how much of him she can recall. Does she remember the tunic-wearing LDA techie who stumbled down her dressing room stairs? Or is Sandor just another name to her, a vague collection of memories long erased from her consciousness?

Neither was true, he suspected. She knew him, but not in the way he wanted. Her memory needed a jumpstart. Devektra needed to come back. Her legacy wouldn't die with Lorien; she could help them win the war. He just needs to get her to remember who she is. She needed his help.

He won't leave her behind like he did to everyone else.

But where to look for her? How can he search for Devektra with every Mogadorian eye hunting for them? He needs equipment. He needs resources. If he could get a security system running, a secure internet connection, build a network of informants, then maybe something could happen. But that was impossible with the way things were going. Constantly moving meant he was always on edge. He needed a permanent base of operation. Hiding wasn't working.

His eyes land on the Loric chest in the corner of the room, filled with otherworldly gems and weapons, and suddenly an idea begins to take shape in his head.

Nine stirs beside him, and Sandor brushes his shoulder with his fingertips. This little guy was the future of Lorien. Sandor would die, this he was sure of. He was sentenced to the same fate of their entire race. But Nine wasn't. The ten Garde sent to earth were something else entirely. They had to fight. They had to carry on the legacy of their people.

Nine opens his eyes and looks up at Sandor, who immediately retracts his hand. He never was good with this mushy stuff.

"Hey kiddo," he says to his exhausted Garde.

Nine yawns, trying to mask his relief at his Cepan's improvement with a practiced nonchalance. Then he realizes how cuddled up next to Sandor he is, and quickly scoots over to the edge of the bed like nothing happened.

"Hey," he replies tentatively. He hesitates before continuing. "I'm..."

They didn't talk about their feelings much, but the last few days made them both aware of how easily they could have lost. Maybe almost dying had made Sandor soft, but more than anything he just wanted to wrap his Garde in a hug.

"I'm glad you're not dead," is what Nine settles on.

Sandor chuckles. "Yeah? Me too."

Nine breaks out into a goofy side grin, but then he catches sight of the dried blood on the sheets, and it falls.

"So what do we do now?" he asks. "What's next?"

Sandor starts to get off the bed, unintentionally wincing with the movement.

Nine notices. He's a sharp kid, even at 10 years old. "You need to rest," he replies, trying to keep his voice stern to hide the concern creeping in.

Sandor forces himself to stand. He rested for a week. That was enough. The Mogs would find them again soon. It was actually a wonder they hadn't already.

"Oh there will be time for that later. But now..." he pauses, glancing out the window. It was early morning, the sun barely skimming the horizon outside. It was a new day; time for a fresh start.

He claps his hands together. "We’re going to try something different," he adds, nodding to the chest at the foot of their bed. "We’ve got the money. Might as well use it.”

Nine looks confused at this, so Sandor elaborates.

“We’re going to hide in plain sight.”

 

* * *

 

 

  
The drive to Chicago is long. It feels symbolic: concluding one long chapter of their life and beginning another. Starting over. For so long, they were transient shadows in bustling cities and deserted towns. Now they'd stand out. So much so that no one would give them a second glance. It was an entirely different way to stay concealed from their enemies.

In the quiet moments on the road, where his Garde sleeps and the streets seem endless and winding, he relives Devektra's, the real Devektra's, last words to him before their world turned to ash.

"It's not too late," she had said, right after she had left him in that night club. Right after the first bombs had fallen. Somehow, she still hoped for the best. Even with all her mistakes, and the mistakes on an entire planet, she saw through an impossible situation and had faith that the Loric werent doomed.

"We can still be good."

He could still be a better Cepan. If not for himself, for Devektra, for Nine. They needed him.

Staring at the approaching Chicago skyline, Sandor for once felt confident about their future. The Loric wouldn't go down. They weren't doomed. They were going to survive, starting with Devektra.

He was going to find her. He was going to bring her back.


	7. Chapter 4

**Day 2,130**

 

_Devektra._

That name traps her in a twilight, a vague intensity that feels like it's ripping her mind apart. All she sees are blurs, all she hears are whispers or shouts... And she dreams... She dreams of... Lorien? She doesn't remember anything from her time there- Setrakus Ra tells her it was a miserable planet meant for death. But this vision, or maybe it's a memory, seems different. She sees of a room filled with color and light and... A song. Someone singing. And then she looks down and realizes its her making the music. And there's a crowd of people jumping and clapping and... Smiling? It's been so long since she'd seen genuine joy, and these people had it.... And just like that the scene changes, a kaleidoscope of noise and reds and purples and laughter, and then she sees a dressing room, intricate swirls on a pair of legs, her legs... And then there's a loud crash, and she looks to her right and there's the Cepan- Sandor was his name- covered in a pile of sequins and boas... And then she sees the bombs, destruction, fire, and screams, screaming... so much screaming... The screams of an entire world being extinguished forever.

And then there's white. A pure white room. A beeping heart rate monitor.

 

* * *

 

They tell her the Cepan and the Garde escaped. Other than that, no one knows what happened. Except her.

They drill her for any crucial details from the mission. Descriptions, transportation, any hints on where they were now. Oh, there were so many things she could spill to them, so many things she could rip straight from her memory and present to them to analyze and test. The Garde was Number Nine. Their getaway car was an old minivan. The Cepan was in bad shape. Sandor was his name. She met him in a nightclub. She was a singer on Lorien. And her name was not Dev, but Devektra.

Bet they'd love to hear all that, wouldn't they?

Silence is her only answer. Let them think it's shock, damage to her vocal cords, or even that Weapon X was being defiant. She doesn't want to give them another word. Not after all the words they've seemingly withheld from her.

What else were they hiding?

Why would Setrakus Ra keep this from her?

Once she's discharged from medical, she's sent right back to combat training. They think with a little sweat and a few punches this will all blow over and Weapon X will be back.

Not this time.

There's no coming back from Vancouver. She can't focus. Maybe she just doesn't want to. Her mind feels foggy, aimlessly following attack combinations and defense maneuvers. Her opponent knocks her on her feet twice in the first round, and crushing any leftover pride she had over her status among Mogadorian ranks.

No one has to tell her she failed. She can see it in their faces. Totally, completely, utterly failed.

As she walks the hallways of the West Virginia base in the coming days, everybody avoids her. Where she was once second-in-command to the highest power in the universe, a god in the midst of slaves, she has fallen so far. She used to be more than a person, now she had fallen to much, much less. The Mogadorians have never quite been the forgiving, let's-give-them-a-second-chance type.

There's talk of her reentering conditioning and augmentation again. After all she's learned in her years on Earth, they want to wipe her and start over. They want to erase Devektra just like they've done before and mold her into an asset they can use for this war. Maybe there would be some peace in that.

But augmentation would mean forgetting Sandor all over again, forgetting her past, when she needed to know it the most. She needed the truth. And besides, deep down she knows she would only slip back into Devektra again. People aren't meant to be made into machines.

To her luck, the equipment and procedures used on her are currently in disuse. The team at Ashwood Estates was running humans through them, forcefully tearing information regarding Loric whereabouts from their minds, until the enormous failure involving the body of Number One and General Sutekh's son. Ashwood's scientists have since moved on to other methods. The reconditioning machines now lie dormant below the foundations of Ashwood, patiently waiting for another subject to torture.

The biggest shock to her out of all of this: Setrakus Ra doesn't once visit her. This guy was full of shit- promising he would rule with her, calling her daughter, telling her she would have an honor above every other being in the universe. Yet, when she needed his direction the most, he'd abandoned her. She was beneath his notice now, having fallen so far.

Well, Setrakus Ra can suck a fat ass in her book.

She's outlived her usefulness as as asset to them, too fragile, unpredictable, not effective enough. She doesn't care. She knows now this would have happened eventually with the end of the war.

She ends up in Piken training in West Virginia. It's actually really nice to not be around Mogadorians all day. Although she's not allowed to use her legacies under strict orders, the krauls love it when she manipulates the light into beams for them to chase. She's tried using her telepathy to communicate with them, but they don't seem to understand her.

Two years slide by, and slowly, they forget about weapon X, the asset, Serakus Ra's second. It's amazing how quickly the Mogadorians moved on to the next task, almost like they could only focus on one thing at a time.

Really, the Mogadorian's biggest mistake was tossing her away so quickly. If they had sent her immediately to reconditioning, maybe they could have gotten a few more years of use out of her. But their carelessness and tendency to view matters as black or white caused them to write her off as irreparable with one failure. And so she becomes a nameless in a different way now, not too mighty to be spoken of, but too lowly to merit notice.

She never forgets Sandor. Memories come to her at odd times, sparked by some random event. Piece by piece, she discovers more of herself everyday. It's a start to something. There are still far dark spots than there are light. Even so, slowly she's figuring out who Devektra is, each day shedding a piece of X for hopefully what is forever.

No one updates her on how the war is going, how many Garde are out left, but she doesn't need other people. She has herself. They've all forgotten she even HAS legacies, so it's laughably easy to use her telepathy and search the minds of the high-ranking Trueborns who visit the base.

Word is there's a Garde here, in the base, being held captive. They say she's Number Eight.

She briefly wonders what the Garde looks like, acts like. The girl isn't even a teenager yet, but she's already had her Cepan killed, and now she'll spend the rest of her days rotting in a jail cell until it's her turn to die. And then it will be Nine. For a moment, something like sadness spreads through her body, but then it's replaced with the heavy feeling of inevitability. This was inevitable. It was bound to happen.

Some part of her wants to even the score a bit, to right the unfair cards this kids have been dealt. It's not fair, she wants to scream, not only about Number Eight, but about herself, the others out there on the run. How are nine children supposed to succeed at something an entire planet couldn't accomplish?

But what could one person do? Letting her own emotions into this situation was foolish. It was better to stay uninvolved.

Instead, she resigns to spend the rest of her days in her own prison. She has done too much to hurt the Loric people to start helping them now. She has no place with Setrakus Ra or with Lorien.

There's also word of a Garde safe house in Chicago, although the exact location is unknown. With such a big city and so many people, it's difficult to track anyone down. Whoever is running it obviously has done an excellent job, but sooner or later they'll slip up. The Mogadorians will catch them and kill them. They always do.

For once, she just didn't want to be a part of it. 


	8. Chapter 5

**Day 3,390**

**Years on Earth : 10**

 

5 years of searching yields nothing. Every corner of Internet scoured, every lead followed, every stone turned, and he couldn't find a trace of her. No sightings. No news. There was nothing.

He can't take it.

Ever since Vancouver, he's changed. Every year has brought a new desperation: desperation to train Nine, desperation to be a worthy Cepan, desperation to find Devektra.

Relief comes in the form of alcohol, wild parties, women. On Lorien, he daydreamed of this life: the well-dressed hero in sunglasses and sports cars, who had a comeback for everything, who chased all the bad guys, who got the girl.

But that wasn't his reality.

So far the only truth in his fantasy was the Italian silk suits in his closet and Ferraris in the garage. Everything else was all wrong. The bad guys were out there, hunting _them_ every waking moment. And he definitely did not have the girl. His reality was too bitter, too harsh to live in without some sort of distraction or escape. 

Maybe Nine notices, maybe he doesn't. Maybe he just doesn't care enough to look. Their relationship is strained to say the least. It never was the best, but in the five years since Vancouver it's really gone downhill. Nine is probably the closest thing he'll ever have to a son, but he treats him like his student. This is for the best, Sandor tells himself. Letting emotions interfere with his mission is not an option. He can't afford to be weak.

With his training, Nine is becoming a more powerful Garde than Sandor would have ever hoped for: physically, strategically, and intellectually. The day Sandor opens the Lecture Hall to him, the Cepan feels the ever-growing guilt he holds inside lessen the slightest bit. At least he was doing one thing right.

The problem is: Sandor sees too much of himself in Nine. For one thing, they're both stubborn as hell. There's too many unresolved arguments between them. And they're both reckless. Nine brought a Mogadorian scout to their secure safe house just to prove a point, not even considering the consequences. He knows Nine longs for a life beyond training, but the kid's not ready. The last hope for Lorien can't be a failure like he was.

Still, he can tell his Garde is getting antsy, and if Sandor holds him back for too long, he'll do something reckless enough to get himself killed.

 

* * *

 

Another thing they have in common: they both have a knack for making fools of themselves in front of beautiful women.

“So a beautiful young thing saw you fall and now you’re embarrassed?" Sandor questions Nine. He thought the Windy City Wall would be a good chance to give his Garde some freedom. Of course there were risks, but if their relationship was going to improve, he needed his Garde to know he trusted him. A membership to a rock-climbing gym seemed like a good start.

When Nine doesn't reply, Sandor squeezes his shoulder in what he hopes is a sign of affection. Instead, it comes off as slightly condescending.

"Tis but a minor setback, my young ward,” he continues. “I can tell you one thing for certain." Nine looks at him almost eagerly, like he may listen to his Cepan's advice this time. "You’re not going to impress your lady by moping around here."

He thinks of that night he met Devektra, when he fell down the stairs in an attempt to avoid getting busted for being underage in a club, and cracks a half-hearted smile.

“Who says I want to impress her?” Nine says back, slightly defensive.

He laughs. “Come on. Who doesn’t want to impress beautiful women? Right now, in her mind, you’re just a guy that bit off more than he could chew," he says, remembering his embarrassment trying to explain his predicament in Devektra's dressing room. "If you don’t go back, though, you become that wimp she saw fall off the wall one time." After all, the only reason he snuck out at Quartermoon was to impress a certain Loric pop star. "Do you want that?”

Nine briefly considers his words. If only he knew Sandor was speaking from experience.

Seconds later he replies.

“I’ll go back tomorrow.”


	9. Chapter 6

**Day 3,408**

 

He really fucked up again.

He got carried away. Maybe he was too eager to mend his relationship with Nine he forgot his number one rule:

_Don't be stupid._

Any personal needs and wants were supposed to be second to their mission from Lorien. Sandor had let Nine have a life other than the war and for a moment, just be a normal kid.

And boy, that was a really stupid thing to do.

He wasn't normal. He was one of the only hopes left for Lorien. And now he was missing.

Sandor blames himself. Of course his Garde couldn't take the fault. He was 15, even younger than Sandor was when he stole Daxin's ID band for a night off. So how could the kid not do something reckless? That's why Garde had Cepan- someone to hold them to a higher standard. It was all his fault.

Maybe Sandor had been a too harsh with Nine. He understood that Nine didn't want to leave their life in Chicago- it was the only home he had ever had. But too much was at stake for them to stay just because they wanted to. Couldn't Nine see that? Couldn't he see that the constant training and lectures were all to protect him? Everything he had done since he ran to the Outer Territories when the first wave of Mogadorians invaded his home- that was for Nine.

But his Garde didn't feel that way. What did he say? _"I'm not one of your gadgets."_ Had Sandor been so preoccupied with their mission on Earth, including finding Devektra, that he lost Nine along the way?

He sighs, hopping this will all blow over, like all of their other arguments had. But somehow this one felt different. Once again, Nine was almost captured by Mogadorians. And once again, it was his fault. Now his Garde was Lore knows where, and Sandor felt sick to his stomach for letting this get so out of hand.

* * *

The night drags on, and Nine doesn't turn up. Feeling completely useless, Sandor watches the moon ever so slowly glide across the night sky, his anxiety building with each centimeter it moves toward the horizon. He tries to convince himself this would all be over by morning. And what could he do now besides scan city cameras or track police frequencies? At some point he made himself a drink to calm down, but that only seemed to worsen the shaking in his hands.

All this worry was probably for nothing. Nine was probably fine. Probably.

Or he was captured and being hauled away to some covert Mogadorian base on the other side of the continent to be tortured, coerced into giving informations out the other Garde, then kept in a cell to rot and never see the light of day again as the Loric went extinct and the Mogadorians took over Earth.

There were lots of options here.

At least the latter would explain why Nine wouldn't pick up his goddamn cell phone.

* * *

 

He decided there had been enough secrets and lies between them. Nine felt Sandor didn't care about him, that he was ready to be treated like an adult. Maybe that was true. Maybe he was being childish. Either way, it was time for Sandor to tell him everything: how he really became his Cepan, how he really felt every time he looked Nine, the only thing worthwhile in his life, and even how his entire move to Chicago was largely motivated by a brainwashed almost-ex-girlfriend Loric popstar.

It's a lot of fit into a voicemail.

But if he say it now, he never would. Nine would never come home. He would never find Devektra. And he would never succeed at anything in his life.

He wastes 15 minutes just trying to organize his thoughts; the sheer amount of information he needed to convey was overwhelming, and Sandor wishes he could be telling Nine this any other way. But time was ticking, and finally he decides there is no GOOD way to hear most of your upbringing was a lie.

"Ah fuck it," he says, and hits call.

He ends up leaving three voicemails. The first one is the worst. It starts out as a nostalgic reliving of the good old days- his life as a bachelor on Lorien, sneaking out to dance clubs and skipping school; his parents and friends; his night meeting Devektra- but then morphs into a memories too painful to speak of- the suspicious outages in the city grid, meeting Nine's grandfather, stealing Daxin's ID bracelet, the bombs at the Chimera, his last ditch effort to save an almost-forgotten Garde, the destruction of Lorien. Sandor doesn't know at what point he starts crying, but by the time past-sandor-and-nine are on the ship, the voicemail has hit its limit and he has to call again.

The second message is more factual than depressing, though Sandor's cheeks never do completely dry. He tells of the journey to Earth, his friendship with the other Garde- especially Number Four, who put up with more than his fair share of snack-stealing and arm punching from Nine than anyone- Brandon, Hessu, really anything he can remember about the others. Anything that would help him find them when the time had come. Just as he finishes telling Nine everything he knows about the human greeters, including the location of one in nearby Ohio, the phone beeps, indicating voicemail length limit.

The third message carries a darker tone. It relives their time on Earth: the lavish motels, constant traveling, and most of all, Vancouver. He leaves nothing out, including the bit with Devektra's reappearance, how she could have killed him but saved him, how the scar on his neck was from her sword, how Nine dragged his almost lifeless body to the car. He also revealed his 5 years of searching for her in Chicago- something he was certain Nine knew nothing of.

Most of all, he asks for forgiveness for his life in Chicago; he couldn't keep it together after Vancouver, and Nine paid the price for it.

There would be no hiding after Nine listened to those voicemails. He probably would never look at his Cepan the same way again. But it was worth it if it saved his life. It was worth it if Nine came back.

* * *

At some point, Sandor passes out from over-exhaustion, because the next thing he knows he wakes up with the sun shining directly on his face through a window, and the first thing he does is look at his phone.

_No new messages._

And then Sandor panics. He was certain Nine would come home after he heard the voicemails. Unless he really had run away for good. Or unless the Mogadorians found him.

The not-knowing was the worst. What if Nine was out there in trouble? What if he needed him right now, and Sandor was too busy making sure his cell service was working correctly?

He flies up out of the chair he fell asleep in and gets back to work. Sends a dozen more texts to Nine. Even calls him again and leaves some shorter voicemails, mostly apologizing and begging him to come home. After he spilled his guts in the first three, there was really nothing more to add. In the meantime, he's scouring the news and Internet for ANYTHING about Nine.

After the sun sets, panic gives way to desperation. Sandor had a horrible feeling in the bottom of his stomach, worse than the night of the invasion. Worse than anything he'd ever felt before.

He'd already lost his world, his family, his friends, Devektra twice, and now Nine. But he would never give up. This was not where he'd let Nine's legacy end. Cracking his neck from side to side, stretching his hands out, he continues sifting through endless news outlets, radios, blogs, hell, even a yelp review, grasping at straws for any shred of information regarding Nine.

He was going to find his Garde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if y'all don't remember what happens in nine's legacy, nine deletes the voicemails   
> so  
> #wasted feelings


	10. Chapter 7

**Day 3,411**

 

She was starting to believe nothing would change. 5 years she's been here, 5 years she hasn't been in the field, and every day she wakes up and it's all the same. No new assignments, missions, threats, no targets to acquire or informants to meet with or information to gather. Thousands of identical days stacked up in her mind, one after the other, so tall she couldn't see past anything else beyond them. 

But she should have known better.

Should've sensed something was off sooner.

Because the war was bound to find her eventually, pluck her from her almost-blissful isolation, and shove her back into the mess of Lorien vs. Mogadore. Whatever form the universe takes, be it a god or an entity for a life force, it wasn't done with her. As much as she wanted to believe she could live a quiet life, after all the fighting fighting fighting, the stars had decided that would not be her legacy.

So when her commanding officer calls one of her Piken to the viewing hanger, she expects it to be for a routine health evaluation. The medical examiners usually refused to come down to the Piken dormitory due to a number of unpleasant smells (something she had long grown accustomed to), so she doesn't ask questions; she keeps her head down and follows the orders of her ever-incompetent superiors. It was usually easier that way.

But something is different today. The stone walls are rumbling with the footsteps of hundreds of soldiers. The West Virgina base is buzzing with excitement, the yelps and hollers of a successful mission echoing from the other end of the base.

Bringing sound particles from across great distances to her ears was a technique she mastered long ago, and the faintest spark of curiosity causes her to reach out with her legacy, sort through the clamor, and find any information that would help her figure out what was going on. But then she's interrupted from her task by one of the aforementioned incompetent superiors.

"We'll take it from here," he interjects, literally snatching the remote to her piken's restraints like a toddler fighting for a toy.

She took that to mean: wait outside until you're needed.

This was highly unusual. It seemed like any Mogadorian couldn't care less what happened to their beasts as long as they could fight. And it wasn't like they were trying to spare her work; really, she was so insignificant sometimes people forgot she was even in a room. The Mogadorians, it seems, couldn't care less about her at all- a feeling in which she shared.

But right now, something big was about to go down. Right here. And she as involved.

After all these years in seclusion, the war had found her once more.

And suddenly she's angry. Angry at the brute in front of her with the intelligence of a bruised banana, flinging orders with the flick of his wrist like he's swatting flies. Angry at whoever or whatever chose this path for her. But most of all she's angry at herself, for being so naive as to think the world hadn't chewed her up enough to spit her out again.

It would never be over. Never. Never. Never. No matter how much she wanted this to end, there would always be a link between her and the Mogadorians, between her and the Loric. Something like helplessness claws up her throat.

And she wants to scream. Scream like she did in Vancouver, when her entire illusion of the world was snatched from beneath her an replaced with reality. Scream like she did for months among the galaxies as Setrakus' pet project. Scream like she did when the firebombs rained down on Quartermoon.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she swallows her soul and nods at the Mogadorian. The screams inside of her are saved for another day, the day when she can look Setrakus Ra in the eyes and tell him he doesn't own her.

Yes, it was too late to join the Loric, but hiding or doing nothing was no longer an option. There's something sparking inside of her, pushing past all the guilt and regret, consuming every rational thought and action:

_Revenge._

Revenge against everything that had gone wrong in her life and everyone who wronged her started with her getting into that hanger.

"Are you certain you no longer require my assistance?" she questions the two Mogadorians escorting the beast toward the door, batting her eyelashes a little and coating her voice with sugar. "This particular piken has been having digestion issues and currently suffers from irritable bowel syndrome. I'd like to be on hand in case any incidents occur," she adds. There. That should do it. If Mogadorians can't handle one thing, it's shit.

The Trueborn who snatched the remote from her hand sighs and turns to his partner. "Then why would they send this--" suddenly, his wrist communicator beeps. "Nevermind it's too late."

He glances at her again, and seemingly against his better judgement, waves her in. "Stay off to the side. You interfere in any way and by Ra, I'll have you executed for this."

Devektra fights the urge to roll her eyes at his empty threat, but nonetheless follows him. Slowly, the enormous door creaks open, and she picks up the tail end of a conversation just as she's about to enter the viewing hanger.

"--never promised we'd let them _leave_."

That's all she can catch before her piken roars and bounds into the hanger, restraint-free.

And that's when the shouting starts.

* * *

They're human screams. Not even thinking of the Trueborn's warning or the consequences of disregarding the direct orders of a superior, Devektra sprints through the hanger and into the room.

And it's chaos.

Dozens of Mogadorians stand on the viewing platform overlooking the entire room, cheering, as three unarmed humans stand before the enormous beast. One of them is a child, no more than 15 or 16 at least. The other two are adults, trying to shield the girl from the hideous piken about to make a meal of them all.

This is a _family_.

The audience of Mogadorians howl, begging for bloodshed, feasting on the unjust atrocity unfolding before them. Some yell, wave their hands, even jump up and down; others smile smile smile. They all smile. There isn't one who isn't smiling. A sea of gray, toothy grins, eager eyes, and violent fists.

This is a show.

The father is too weak, having spent god knows how long in Mogadorian imprisonment. He collapses into his knees before the beast even reaches them. And the cheering increases. And she fights the urge to be sick. How could they applaud the taking of life so callously?

This is despicable.

A blow to the back of her head turns her vision blurry. It's been so long since she's been in a fight that even with her adrenaline pumping and legacies on high alert, the punch takes her by surprise. The Trueborn grabs her by the neck of her shirt and drags her back to the sidelines.

"I told you to stay out of the way," he barks at her.

But as he's dragging her out of the room, she catches the unmistakeable yell of the daughter, her last words probably.

This is the last thing she'll ever say before she's killed for the sake of show.

And it's such a peculiar thing to say.

"You _promised_! Stanley, you promised!"

* * *

Devektra's confused by her response, at least until she sees who the girl is yelling at. And it's not her parents, or the Mogadorians watching eagerly. It's a boy.

Standing on the railing, surrounded by overjoyed Mogadorians, hands bound, teary eyed, Loric symbols on full display burned into his leg.

And that's when she

  
loses 

  
it

* * *

It's strange how much children can grow in such a short amount of time. Five years seems like nothing to her, but to a growing young boy it really makes a difference. He must be 15 years old by now, and he's built like a soldier. The child who desperately defended himself and his Cepan in Vancouver no longer exists.

But right now, Number Nine looks like the weight of the world, of each individual life, is crushing his very being.

The piken lunges for the family, and worse yet, the girl keeps yelling.

“Stanley!” she shrieks. “Help us!”

Before she can see anything else, Devektra's literally dragged out of the room, and the hanger door is slammed shut.

The hallway out here is eerily silent, but she's burning with an all-consuming heat, a blind rage that takes over here entire body. Her old attack sequences come back to her in a flash, even though it's been years since her last fight. The crowd inside the hanger cheers, but she's too furious to notice. In a matter of moments, she's wrested out of the Trueborn's grip and knocked him and his partner unconscious.

Without a thought of consequence, she sprints back to the hanger, back for the family, or for the boy, she's not sure. She just knows this is wrong, so wrong, and just one shout from her would stop the piken and end this cruelty. It could save these four lives Setrakus Ra was about to ruin forever.

But she's too late.

The room has gone quiet, devoid of any screaming, roaring, cheering. In fact, the audience is gone. Nine is gone.

 

* * *

 

Anger. 

So much _anger_.   
Coursing through every part of her.

She's certain if someone poked holes in her burning magma would spew forth and destroy anyone who dare to touch her.

That was two Garde here now, and even though she wasn't sporting a particular side in this war, she knows this can only mean victory for Setrakus.

And she's boiling over at the thought of that monster's victory, at thought of her own failures, of how once again what she wants has slipped through her grasp and been thrown to the Mogadorians to destroy.


	11. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW themes of suicide

**Day 3,430**

 

Rage morphs to grief, a bitter, hideous animal who has gladly taken up refuge inside of her since the day Setrakus Ra tore her world to shreds. His first gift of many to her, it would seem.

Nine's here.  
Nine is here.  
Number Nine is here.

One month has passed.

Ironically, she finds herself in the same position as the Garde: captive. broken. She's been held under house arrest for her insubordination, though she wonders why the consequences were not more severe. The Mogadorians must have a lot on their plate, with two Garde here.

That makes 3 imprisoned Loric.

She's grateful for her insignificance, that they don't remember her as one of them. What an embarrassment to the legacy of Lorien she would be. The Mogadorians, although they don't like to admit it, fear the nine Garde sent to Earth.

They don't fear her.

And unlike them, she wishes she was dead. They should have just killed her. 11 years ago, with the rest of her people. With Sandor, who is surely by this time is dead.

Why couldn't that be her?

Why, of all people, was she chosen to be remade and tortured and possessed by the twisted ideals of Setrakus Ra? She was so tired of living, of not living, of living for other people.

Would her life ever be hers?

Even on Lorien, it was one thing after another demanded of her. "If you want fame," they said, "you have to be willing to do whatever it takes." Whatever it takes. Such a funny expression. To her, it comes across as desperation, a feeble attempt at achieving one's goals regardless or moral of societal consequences. Would you really do anything to achieve your dream? Would you really carve out your soul and present it on a platter for others to take, and as you're bleeding out and trying to remember why you cut yourself open in the first place, let others grab at your bones for more?

You said you would do whatever it took,  
for the fame.

And she has known fame,  
and infamy,

on Lorien,  
and on Earth,

as the Devektra,  
and as X.

 

* * *

 

  
If not for the icicle of guilt inside of her, stabbing and freezing her very core, she's probably enjoy house arrest. The only Mogadorian she has to interact with is a hand shoving her food tray though the door.

Well, sometimes they feed her, sometimes they don't.

The price of being insignificant.

Number Three is killed 4 weeks later. It's a strange event; the Mogadorian bringing her meals tells her like he can't hold it in, like killing a child is the best news he could ever hope to deliver. She feels like she's swallowed a supernova.

She doesn't eat for two days after. The grief living inside her is an ever-changing beast who manifests itself daily in different forms. Sometimes she sobs, sometimes silent tears roll down her cheeks. But she never screams. She bottles that rage away for the time she can use it.

If Setrakus Ra has taught her anything, it's how to be angry. And she is livid. She traps herself inside her own mind, filling the cracks in her composure with one word written in a thick, dripping red.

_Revenge._

Because while the grief is here, eventually it will pass. And whenever they decide how to punish her for running to that family, that screaming girl, that boy watching, she'll be ready to make them pay. No longer can afford to waste time in self-isolation. Number Nine being here proves this war is still very real.

And there's no way Setrakus Ra can be allowed to win it. 


	12. Chapter 9

**Day 3,487**

 

Another month passes. That makes 8 weeks in confinement. All for running when they told her to watch.

Her days are spent fantasizing about snatching her life back from Setrakus Ra's hands, watching his fingertips crumble to ash as everything he's worked hard to build collapses to rubble. She knows from personal experience that killing would never solve anything, but she prays to whatever spirit that will hear her that maybe, just this one time, it would. At least in her mind. Because she was certain she wasn't getting out of this room alive.

But they release her.

They tell her she's been spared. And she laughs at the luck she has. To dodge death yet another time. The universe still would not let her rest.

They've reassigned her, apparently to something lower than what she was already doing. They've taken her away from her animals, taken her away from those quiet days spent deep in the recesses of the artificial mountain, when she wasn't in the thick of the Mogadorian effort, when its so called progress wasn't being poured down her throat every moment.

Perhaps it's for the best. She realizes now that job was only a temporary hideaway.

But then she receives her new assignment.

_Prisoner management._

This must be a joke.

 

This job was a disgrace. They were basically the janitors of the base. Assigned per cell block, their responsibility was simply to collect meals and waste.

But that's not why Devektra is in hysterics.

No.

This job meant a chance to see Number Nine.

She feels like another cinder block has been added to the burden she shoulders every day, another metaphorical chain to clink against the ones already wrapped around her limbs. Now, she was doomed to look upon one of the very symbols of this war on a daily basis.

In reality, he'd never know she was there. He'd never see how low she'd sunk, how cowardly she'd become for hiding. And there was no way she could speak to him, of course. For someone as low as her to speak with a prisoners, especially ones as high ranking as a Garde, meant instant execution. Her body would be limp on the concrete floor before she got the chance to tell him what the weather's like outside.

Even if she could, what would she say?

I almost hooked up with your Cepan that night our planet was invaded. Then I was brainwashed into becoming Setrakus Ra's personal ragdoll. But the brainwashing started to wear off. And I ran into your cepan again. By the way, I almost killed him. But I didn't. And now I've been shoveling chimera shit for the past five years as punishment.

And then you showed up and ruined everything.

All excellent options, but for now she favors silence.

* * *

She sees Number Nine the following day through steel bars.

Or Stanley, as the girl referred to him.  
The girl.   
The girl now forever out of existence because of something she was part of.

He's doing push-ups.

On the wall.

Antigravity was such a rare legacy on Lorien, she can't help but almost laugh at the boy's spirit. Maybe he wasn't totally broken, if he was trying to stay strong, even showing off to the Mogadorians watching.

That's almost worse. If he's not broken now, he'll crumble eventually. There was no way she could imagine him getting out of that cell.

She's bringing him a meal today.

The two guards in front of his cell don't even look at her as she carries the tray to the door. Her hands shake as they move to unlock the six inch latch in the middle.

She's imagining the worst possible scenarios: if he looks at her, if he recognizes her, if he tries to escape. She doesn't know if she could survive his accusing glance, the last of her former people. And if he indicated that he knew her, who knows what would happen. She could be locked up with him for all she knew.

With a deep breath, she quickly throws open the latch, shoves the tray through the slot in the middle of the door, and almost slams the metal closed. It's 3 seconds. It's 3 years.

She rushes off, afraid that Nine can somehow see through the walls, through her, for the disappointment she is.

The next time, he's doing jumping jacks.

With his back to the door, face straight ahead in towards the gray rock walls. This time when she unlocks the latch, she gets a millisecond glance at him, a snapshot of his unwavering confidence and stoicism.

She pushes the tray through and hustles to the next cell.

The next time, he's doing sit ups. The tray is pushed through and she runs off.

The next time, more push-ups.

And the next time.   
And the next time.   
And the next time.


	13. Chapter 10

**Day 3,501**

 

Sandor trained his Garde well.

He's been here two weeks. She's fed him 9 times. And every time she's caught a glimpse of him in the monitors, through the food latch, he's been active. Silent, but active. Always working out, sweating, fighting to stay stronger. He even throws himself against the force field sometimes, convincing himself he's strong enough to break it.

The Trueborns question him some days, probing for any information he may have about the other Garde. But Devektra knows better. He's just a kid. She doesn't know anything about him or how he got here, but she knows Sandor. Sandor never would have endangered him like that.

The only relief she has from this nightmare is that Sandor is dead. All his pain, mistakes, knowledge, they're wiped out of existence. Gone forever. And even though she wishes more than anything he could tell her about the person he used to be before she was taken from herself, she's relieved he's no longer suffering.

Maybe the universe finally got something right.

 

 

And then it doesn't.

 

 

No, no.

Definitely not right.

 

 

This is not how it was supposed to go.

 

 

 

* * *

 

The day is like any other. Recently there's been news of a Loric joining the Mogadorians cause down in Florida. They say he's nothing like they've seen before. Strong, fast, powerful. Setrakus Ra's second. Sound familiar? Poor kid has no idea what he got himself into.

She's about to finish decontaminating the last cell in her block for the day when she hears dozens of heavy footsteps. But they're still a ways off when a Vatborn messenger runs into the open cell door.

He can't be older than 18, which explains he's not on the front lines as a soldier, but his tone is rigid and mechanical.

"We need this cell cleared. Now."

Of course. Of course they need everything now. Because the world revolves around their timeframe, and if any demand isn't met in 20 seconds, these impatient Trueborn toddlers will throw a hissy fit.

"Well I'm not done with it," Devektra replies, without looking up. This kid needed to piss off.

"That's an order."

She sighs. It's not even worth her time.

"You want to break protocol? Fine. When this prisoner dies of kraulrot, no one better come crying to me about hygiene," she says, turning to the keypad on the door and clearing the database. He rolls his eyes.

"All done," she tells him, not bothering to his her disgust. He replies with a grunt. "What's the rush anyways?"

He looks up like he's surprised she's still there. "Did I ask you to speak? No I didn't. Now get out of here."

So it's true that all vatborns are natural born assholes. Interesting. She accidentally hits him with the mop on the way out.

The footsteps are louder now, the squeaks of rubber souled shoes bouncing the off the cavern walls. She's about to walk away, but for some reason she can't place, curiosity is coursing through her nerves. It's been so long since she's actually  wanted to know details about the way, but she's surprised how strong her desire is now. She feels it in the pit of her stomach, a desperate urge to figure out why it's suddenly so cold in this wing and why her bones have suddenly turned to concrete.

So she stops after rounding the corner to reach out with her legacy and search the mind of the Vatborn. He must know something.

There's not much to sort through. She's not surprised. A couple places, fellow soldiers, a few faces. There's nothing he-

Oh no.

 

This cannot be happening.

She drops a bucket full of something- water, acid, she no longer knows. Her hands shake too much, her thoughts are too muddled to process anything.

And then there's shouts from the end of the hallway. They're here. There's no turning back. No escaping the truth this time.

A group of impenetrable looking soldiers parades down the hall, protecting their prize behind fleshly walls. There's a bag on his head, a little blood seeping through the burlap, a little limp in his step, a fine Italian suit torn to shreds.

For the third time, she's witnessing him come back from the dead.

Lorien.

Vancouver.

And now.

She thought she knew pain. But now she questions what she must have been feeling this whole time. Because seeing Sandor here, alive, captured, was agony.

Sandor's here.

Sandor is here.

Sandor and Nine are here.

And suddenly her world has plunged back into darkness. She's been dragged back into her past mistakes, and this time she knows she'll never escape.

 


	14. Chapter 11

**Day 3,503**

  
She tried to convince herself he'll never know she's here. But that's impossible. She can still feel their telepathic connection. After all, she's only ever shared that with one other person before, who turned out to be a monster instead of her savior.

Her plans for revenge had nothing to do with Sandor and Nine. She never planned on seeing them again. Because she knows if she sees them, she'll need to help them. Her feelings about Nine being here have proved that. And if she helps them, then she's siding with the Loric in this war.

What a terrible mistake that would be.

But there's no way to avoid it. She's refused to look at the monitors, walk by his cell, visit the interrogations. Still, three days in, she's assigned to bring him a meal, since he's been passing out repeatedly today. His body must be so exhausted and tortured. She can only imagine the weight of losing a Garde, the last hope for Lorien. She doesn't have to imagine the Mogadorians cruel torturing techniques.

Maybe he wont remember her.

A lie.

Maybe he'll be so delusional, he won't be able to remember her.

A lie.

Maybe he won't want to remember her.

All lies.

The days of lying to herself are gone. She can no longer be placated with the unrealistic fantasy of good luck.

And now she's walking to the interrogation room, and she's never been shaking this much in her life. She's petrified. What will he think of her, of her failures, of her cowardice?

And she takes a deep breathe, willing her skin to harden, to go back to that cold, and unfeeling machine she was before Vancouver. But there's too much fire inside her now. Too much anger.

She's just outside the door, finally having mustered up the bravery to enter, when a tortured scream comes from inside and shatters the little confidence she gathered.

And then the true, crippling panic sets in. Her entire being is ice. The tray slips from her hands, and at the last second she catches it with her telekinesis and slowly lowers it to the ground. Thank god there's no one in the hall right now.

The urge to vomit is overwhelming.

Failure is not an option. She cannot allow herself to break again. So after a few moments, she commands her hands to stop shaking, commands her mind to focus.

Breathe. In and out.

She just needs to bring the tray in and leave. Bring the tray in. And leave. It's that simple. It's four seconds. And maybe Sandor will see her, maybe she'll even get lucky and he'll be unconscious or hysterical.

A lie.


	15. Chapter 12

He's shackled to the wall, hanging limply from chains in the ceiling.

A shudder sprints down her spine as she remembers what it felt like. to be there. to have the enormous weight of your own tortured being ripping your shoulders from their sockets.

There's dried blood running down his chin, on the floor, the walls, the ceiling. She doesn't need to imagine how blood could possibly splatter all the way up to the ceiling. Lore knows she painted the walls with her insides back in her day.

Suddenly she's not looking at Sandor, but she's looking at herself. 11 years ago. Another victim of Ra's methods.

But even now it's worse. Because they're not trying to remake him. They're trying to unravel him.

His eyes say so much. Though one of them is almost swollen shut, both are alert and rapidly taking in his surroundings, flooding with a deluge of emotions. Pain. Anger. Loneliness. Desperation. Terror.

And then he sees her walking in, and suddenly everything shifts. All those other feelings are pushed aside, and she sees him fill up with something she never expected to see.

Relief. 

_Sandor._

Is all she can think.

But then she realizes she didn't just think it. She just told him. Telepathically.

Oh no   
Oh no oh no.   
This is was such a mistake.

Because then his eyes light up with hope. And Devektra's heart sinks to the core of the Earth as she realizes that he thinks she's on his side. He thinks she's here to save him, or at the very least help him.

He should know better.

But he's so overjoyed, opening his eyes as wide as they'll go to drink the sight of her in. He's like a withered plant in a rainstorm, trying to withstand to the downpour but taking in as much as he possibly can.

She needs to leave. She needs to leave now. Get out of here as fast as she can. Leave the Mogadorians. Leave anyone she's ever known. Find Setrakus Ra and kill him. And then this will be over. It will all be over. And then she can die, knowing her legacy was anything but what she is now.

She sets the tray down and bolts for the door, but Sandor doesn't let her off that easy.

"Devektra!!"

_Shit._

He heard that too. She looks back at him as his face contorts with confusion. She's not in control of her Legaices, and right now her thoughts are on full display to him, their telepathic connection as wide as an ocean. She doesn't know how to stop it. Control is a foreign concept at the moment.

The Mogadorian who was torturing him suddenly turns his attention to her, a gleeful look in his eyes.

"Devektra?" he questions, an evil smile slowly spreading over his face. "Is that your name, dear?"

Then Sandor finally understands.

_You're still working for them._

And she wants to scream at him that it's not what he thinks, but there's too many dead bodies between them, too many years she spent killing for them. But she still can't scream. Not yet.

_How could you?_

The accusation fills her thoughts and makes her want to collapse into a puddle on the floor. Because finally, someone is seeing her as she truly is. And she hates it.

She must nod, because the Mogadorian continues.

"Ah excellent! You two know each other then!! Perhaps you could give me a hand dear in-" he pauses, stroking his chin, "requesting Sandor's assistance in our endeavors."

_Shit._

Sandor's eyes widen as every thought and feeling she's experiencing is broadcast in his mind. Unfiltered.

But maybe he'll understand how it feels. To be trapped somewhere. To have done so much wrong that no amount of right could ever balance it out.

The interrogater is looking at her like he's about to devour her, and she realizes he's still waiting for an answer. It's funny, because she knows she doesn't have a choice in this. They'd use her with or without her permission. They have in the past.

She's surprised how mechanical her response is, how devoid of emotion she sounds when an entire rainbow of feeling is whirring through her brain.

"Whatever it takes for Mogadorian Progress."

The Mogadorian smiles, and apparently there's still enough good in this forsaken existence of hers to let her escape one last time, because then his wrist communicator summons him, allowing her to run away from her problems. For the last time, so it would seem. 


	16. Chapter 13

**Day 3,504**

 

Telepathy is a very personal legacy. Once a connection been established, every subsequent connection becomes easier, like stretching a muscle so it becomes more flexible. At West Virginia, sifting through the minds of the same high-ranking military personnel day after day had become almost second nature. When they got close enough to Devektra, it was as if their thoughts reached out TO HER, begging to be read.

It's very different to converse with someone telepathically- to have them talk WITH her instead of TO her. It's vulnerable; it's letting someone else into HER mind, letting them see all her thoughts, emotions, and desires as she sees theirs.

That's why she's only ever shared it with two people.

She hates that she can still feel her connection to Setrakus Ra in the deep recesses of her mind. It's definitely weakened, but it's still there. Perhaps if she really concentrated, she could possibly reach out to the Beloved Leader right this moment.

But then he'd see her doubt, her anger, her rebellion, and she's be ruined.

She also hates that she can feel her connection with Sandor. She'd have to be the one to initiate it of course, but if she was all the way across the base, her mind would still feel his agony, his betrayal. If she could summon the willpower to initiate a conversation, she could even talk to him right now.

But what's the point of that when she's about to see him face to face.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been decided by a committee of high-ranking trueborns that, in light of recent discoveries, namely her past connection with the captive, it would be most effective for her to question the cepan.

Of course it would.

And now she's standing in the control room for the prisoner section. In one monitor, Nine is doing one-handed push-ups on the ceiling. In the next one, Sandor is tied up like a shoelace, awaiting her questions.

How cute. They're neighbors.

"Devektra!" a Trueborn shouts from across the room.

She hates the way her name sounds in his mouth. Not only is her name supposed to be the one thing that's hers and hers alone, but it's so unpleasantly sharp and gruff in the Mogadorian's accented English. In Loric, it sounds like a end of a song; at least, that's what Mirkl always said to her.

When Sandor said it in Vancouver, it was more like lightning.

"Are you aware of your mission objective?"

Mission.

Objective.

Oh, just like the good old days.

It's surprisingly easy to step back into her old shell. Weapon X. The asset who follows order easier than she breaths. The machine built without emotion.

"Yes, sir."

In all her years of servitude, she never saw this part. What happened after she'd capture someone. Being X was simple: complete the mission and kill anyone who stands in the way. This is different to her.

Killing is a science, filled with pure simple logic: they die, you don't; you die, they don't. But torture is an art. You need to know your victim. You need to know exactly how hard to push, when to let up, what gets to them, what matters to them. You need to know how to destroy someone, not in the blink of an eye, but piece by piece, until all their secrets come spilling out in waterfalls of words.

And because Sandor is so much like her, she knows exactly how to accomplish that.

They gave her a list of questions to ask. Sent her out the door. Said they'd be monitoring closely for any developments. Told her to take her time. Told her to enjoy it while it lasts.

Her stomach is filled with white hot acid.

As she turns to the doorway, the highest ranking Mogadorian stops her. The same one who recruited her for this lovely project.

"Not so fast, my dear." He gestures to her to sit down. She does.

He's clearly higher ranking than she originally thought. She was so preoccupied with Sandor before that she missed the dozens of medals pinned to his navy blue uniform. She doesn't want to know how he got them.

"As you're clearly aware of, given your past service record, you cannot afford to fail."

She freezes. He knows who she is. Or who she was, rather.

"We have been more than generous with you these last few years, crediting your current behavior with the sterling legacy of your past." He walks toward her, closer and closer. Narrows his eyes.

"Let me be clear that if you in any way sabotage this mission, that will be the last time your insubordinate is tolerated. I will personally see to it that your execution is carried out to the fullest degree. By me, of course. And make no mistake, I am rather talented at what I do."

Leans his face into hers.

"The only reason you are here is because this Loric scum seems to respond better to a pretty face. Is that clear, Devektra?" He spits that last part out at her, her name.

If she dies, she doesn't get revenge. And if she doesn't get revenge, then all her pain was for nothing.

She takes a deep breath.

Sandor and Nine are doomed, with the rest of Lorien. That includes her. But she's not ready to surrender to death. She's done fooling herself into thinking she could ever escape this and live a quiet life. That hasn't been her path since day 1.

She's destined for fame, for fire, for destruction.

All so this is her mission: Interrogate Sandor. Earn back her prestige, her title, her legacy. Earn back the Beloved Leader's favor. Kill Ra.

After all, she's already betrayed everyone else in her life. Why would Sandor be excluded?

Looking the Mogadorian leader straight in the eye, she wills herself to be invincible. To cast her heart out of her body and fill its empty cavern with ash. To exchange what little morsel of her soul was left for the empty promise revenge.

She inhales, replacing her brittle bones with steel. They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

But she's sure she's already been dead.

"Yes, sir." Her obedient words taste unbearably bitter as they climb out of her mouth.

"And also," she continues, "please, call me X."


	17. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol more pain

"Let's start with the obvious: What's your name?"

He doesn't reply.

As the silence spreads throughout the room, she realizes maybe this moment is the longest of her life.

Her knees are shaking. She doesn't know why. She attempts to hide them under the table. It's doesn't work.

"You are Loric, correct?" she says, looking up at him. His face twists into some emotion she can't quite place, but he still doesn't reply. He doesn't even meet her eyes. She sighs. It's difficult to get a read on him.

"You know," a pause, "Sandor-" why was it so hard to say his name- "this whole thing would progress a lot easier-" aka we could get this over with- "if you would just answer my questions."

And then he laughs. It's cold and hateful, and something inside her breaks at his cruel smile, at the pure disbelief in his eyes.

Suddenly, the Mogadorian standing guard in the corner moves to take a step forward. She whips her head around.

"Is there a problem, soldier?" Her tone is sharp, commanding. It makes the him second-guess his movement

"I uh-- he just wasn't saying anything, and the commander told me if that happens I should make him--"

"I don't care," she spits out, "what the commander told you. In this room, you listen to my judgement. If you can't handle that, leave."

"But he--"

"That's an order."

He glares at her, but steps back begrudgingly, obviously not too thrilled to be taking orders from who he thinks is a janitor. She's just about to return to her questions, when she catches him mumble:

"I didn't realize the way to get promoted nowadays is to sleep with the prisoners."

She bolts up from table, and something snaps. Specifically the soldier's arm, thanks to telekinesis.

He hollers, a few droplets of thick, dark, blood staining the white floor. The Mogadorian runs out the door blubbering like a dying whale, leaving Devektra alone with Sandor.

It's silent, but she's still steaming over the nerve some of these pathetic Mogadorians have and how he could ever even believe that and then she wonders if everyone thinks that or if they suspect her loyalties have been compromised and this is all just a test to see and now she has to continue this goddamn interrogation alone with--

His voice is surprisingly strong when he speaks.

"How long before you do that to me?" Sandor says, interrupting her thoughts.

The acid in her stomach jumps up her throat as fear suddenly seizes her esophagus, making it so very hard to breath. Because now he's seen her for what she truly is: a monster who injures and kills without thought or regret or mercy.

It hurts more than she expected, seeing the pain in his eyes. It feels like she's betrayed the Loric all over again, except this time she's fully control of her actions.

I have no choice, is what she wants to yell at him. After all, she wasn't given an option to in this assignment, and she needs to play the part of the ruthless interrogater to appease her superiors. But she's not sure how much of it is acting and how much of it is real anymore. She can't remember the last time she was sure of any reality.

"We'll see."

She almost sounds like one of _them_ when she says it.

He finally looks up from the floor, and just as she's trying to turn herself back into stone, he meets her eyes. It's a cold stare, his irises focusing her with accusations too numerous for words.

"You've done worse, already," he continues. "The beard hides it, but uh," he shrugs, or he would if his shoulders aren't most likely dislocated. "The sword you had in Canada... well... look for yourself."

And for the first time she sees it, under the dark brown hair: the outline of a large gash, stretching from the bottom of his ear to the base of his collerbone. It's tinted a faint pink. This is what she did to him, to Nine; all for Setrakus Ra. Before she realizes what she's doing, she walks over to him extends her hand to faintly brush the scar.

He inhales sharply at her closeness, but doesn't say anything. All she can do is look at the scar, her gift to him, the gift that almost killed him, and by extension, surely would have killed Nine. Her mouth opens in horror as she realizes what she's done, what she could have done...

But then she remembers there are others watching.

Her outstretched hand suddenly retracts back, and she slaps him. Maybe they'll think she meant to do that.

Either way, Sandor was definitely not expecting it.

How did they get so off track in a matter of moments? She swears it won't happen again, and rushes back to her notes, on the metal table in the center of the room. A faint stream of blood runs down Sandor's chin, but he can't wipe it off considering his hands are chained above his head.

"So," she pauses, running a hand through her hair. "Your name is Sandor, and you are the Cepan--"

"Sweetheart, why did you even ask the questions if you already knew the answers?"

"--you are the Cepan of the Garde we have here- correct?" she continues, refusing to acknowledge his remark.

It seems he's playing the same game. Instead of answering, he asks his own questions.

"I want to know something. When exactly did you switch sides?" His tone is malicious, bitter, all too accusing, and even though she knows she should stick to the questions, she can't help but defend herself. 

"What makes you think I switched sides?"

"Well shit, maybe the fact that you're all working for assholes who destroyed our planet."

"I'm _not_ \--"

"How can you _say_ that?!? You clearly are with them- Working for them. KILLING for them." He laughs, the only way he can think to deal with the tension in his heart. There's a moment of silence before he goes on. 

"I know you!!" His hair falls in front of his face and it's so dark, so unkempt from what she's seen from his time in Earth, and some part of her wants to reach out and fix it. "Devekta- this isn't-"

"STOP," she orders, even though she wants him to go on, to lay every thought and emotion he feels toward her out in the open, just so she can see how much he hates her. Why, she has no idea.

Surprisingly, he stays silent, and she finishes the thought telepathically.

_There are others listening. We can't talk here._

Sandor blinks back realization in his eyes, his suspicion at war with optimism. He wants to believe she's on his side, that the Devektra he remembers is still there, but making that mistake again would be too costly. Instead, he gives a slight nod.

_I can hold this sound barrier for about two minutes before they realize it's not an equipment malfunction._

Why was she doing this? Didn't she swear off Sandor and Nine, the Loric cause altogether? Didn't she resolve to be X again? Why was she indulging him? Letting him talk to her like she was a person?

And suddenly she realizes: she cares what Sandor thinks.

Does he _really_ hate her, like she thought he did? Does that last person who knew Devektra despise her? Because the pleading look in his eyes... the way he said her name... it says otherwise.

"Let me explain," she pauses, realizing this is the first time she's ever said what happened to her out loud. It feels important for some reason.

"The night of the invasion, i- they- i don't really remember the details. I was fighting, there was smoke everywhere. It seemed like we were winning..." the thoughts come so fast, ash and darkness and death. Beautiful Lorien turned to nothing. One look at Sandor's face tells her he's reliving that night as well.

"But then my legacies stopped working. Not just mine- it was all of the Garde on our block. We were all so confused," she shakes her hand. "And I- I saw a cane, glowing red. Something... exploded. Someone screamed, I think. Then everything went black.

"I still don't remember anything from the months when I was... Taken. I thought I was dead..." if only she was dead. "Even the years I spent on Earth felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. I guess that would depend on your perspective... But I- I didn't even... realize who I was or where I was from until I saw you in Canada. And ever since then, I've been working to stop Setrakus--"

"So you're joining us?" He says it so plainly, so boldly, like the world is so simple and everything is one way or the other. She's against Setrakus, so she must be with them.

"What?" she says it like it's ridiculous. "No. No I'm not."

"But how could you--"

She interupts him this time. "The Mogadorians have you beat. Just look around. I can't help you anymore than you can help me..." she pauses, biting her lip. "But I know can get to Ra. I can kill him. I just have to do this _one_ thing for them and then-"

"Wait. Wait. So you're not planning on doing _anything_?"

She feels ashamed to admit this out loud. "No."

Sandor doesn't even have the energy to laugh this time. 

"What about Nine?"

It's like she's been punched in the gut. More dead children. More dead Loric.

Her silence is the worst answer for him.

"That's bullshit! You know- you have a real chance here. To do some good..." Sandor's more confused than angry, though the rage is certainly there. "Now, I may deserve this," she cringes, "but that kid out there doesn't. He continues, softer this time.

"He doesn't deserve to die like us. None of them do."

She tries to blink back the tears in her eyes. Of course they don't. No one does. No one _did_.

But it's too late. It's too late. Why doesn't he know it's too late.

"Sandor-" she begs him to hear to her. "You're on the wrong side." He scoffs. "Listen to me!!" she continues, "You have to let me do this, kill Setrakus Ra while I have the chance, or Nine will die. All of the Garde will die!"

She's surprised by how much passion is in her voice.

"Let you do this? Let you??" He laughs again. Why won't he stop laughing. Then he raises his arms, chained and bloody and scarred. "Do I look like I'm in control of what I do right now?"

"Not exactly but-"

"Where exactly do I fit into this grand plan of yours, Darling?"

Silence.

"Yeah that's what I thought," he says, shaking his head, returning his gaze to the floor. He doesn't want to her excuses.

"It's not-"

"You know I don't care about dying," he cuts her off. Looks up. Looks through her eyes. She's certain he can see every flaw. "I know you don't either. Sometimes it seems like the easy way out..." he trails off.

"But you and me- we still have work to do. We have a  _responsibility_. And when I saw you in Vancouver- I- I couldn't believe it. I was in pure shock. I didn't even try to explain why you were fighting me..." moves his eyes to the ceiling. Sighs. Lowers his voice to a whisper. "I just- I thought-" hesitates. "I thought maybe I wasn't alone anymore."

 _But you had Nine_ , is what she wants to say.

But then she realizes he didn't. Because people like them, so young and innocent and children, shouldn't know how cruel life is that soon.

"I was willing to wait for you, to find you," he continues. "I searched for you. For years. I know they must have done something to you, and I thought I could help." He laughs. "I thought I could help. But look at you now."

His eyes flick towards her, full of judgement, each glance like the stab of a knife. 

"You may as well just kill me and my garde if this is what you want to do now..." and just like that his voice is rising again, the quiet anger replaced with pure rage. "At least I'm choosing a side, not hiding and waiting for a convenient time to get off my ass and do something!"

"Oh _really_??" She's livid. How dare he judge her so harshly when his mistakes nearly rub as high as hers. "Is that really what you did?? Because I don't recall you being a mentor Cepan."

Low blow.

"Who died so you could save _yourself_?" she spits out at him. "When did you become the perfect role model of Loric morality, and why do you get to sit here and tell me what I should do with my life when that's all others have ever done to me?!"

Real hurt swims in his dark brown eyes, and it spills out in acid on his tongue.

"How DARE you--"

"We BOTH didn't choose this! Why don't you see that?!"

"I DO see that, Devektra, I do! What I cannot utterly fathom is why, when you have your freedom back, you choose to stay here? Why not choose Lorien? Why not--"

"I DID choose Lorien!!" her head throbs with memory and pain. It's hard to remember anything in her life except the shadow left by that miserable day. Since then she's been swallowed in darkness searching for the light before.

And here he is.

Sandor. In the same darkness she's in.

Alive.

Imprisoned.

Most certainly doomed.

"On the night of the invasion, I fought for my planet, my people, my home. And I _lost_. I lost _everything_..."

Devektra looks down at her hands. For once there's no cutting remark from him. Just silence, begging her to go on.

"I _wish_ I had died on that night." She says it confidently. She can't remember a time when death wasn't a foreign topic to her. "There's nothing worse than being forced to live a life that isn't yours."

More silence. That seems to be a theme with them.

"But always, I guess I don't have to tell you that," she says, finally gathering enough courage to look at Sandor again.

His eyes meet hers, and she can bear it this time. And he wishes he could erase all the blood between them and just be honest with each other. Like it was on Quartermoon. 

It's not an excuse for what she did. There is no excuse for what she's done. But neither is there for him. 

So maybe they were the same in that. 

"I've seen Nine," she says. Her voice is so low that he strains to hear her. But he needs to hear this, to know how the one light in his life is shining. "For what it's worth... you're doing a hell of a jo--"

And he can't believe he was starting to forgive her. 

"Don't. _Don't_ say that," he says sharply.

"What? I-"

"You just can't seem to drop the whole double agent act, can you?" And just like that, there's a war between them again. "You walk into my cell the other day like some coward afraid of her own shadow, you come here today like some brainwashed robot to ask me questions, to work for them, then you break that soldier's arm like some ninja assassin, you talk about killing Setrakus Ra like some vengeful fugitive, I-" he takes a frustrated breath. "I don't know who you are right now!"

I don't either, is what she wants to say.

Because without this master plan to kill Setrakus Ra, to get her revenge, who is she?

But instead pride gets the better of her and she shapes her arrogance into knives she can throw at him.

"You never knew me! You only liked me because I was famous!"

He scoffs at that. "Oh believe me, you're still famous. You just have a higher kill list now."

Too much. This was too much. Her head is pounding, and she tells herself it's from over exerting her legacies, but she knows that's only partly true. Sandor's words have that bitter ring of truth to them. Any moment now soldiers will come pouring in to see what's wrong with the sound, but she has to get away away away.

She turns to go for the door, but Sandor's voice stops her cold. 

Because he can't let her walk away again. No matter what they've done, if they both drown in their own guilt there will be no one left to fight. 

"Vek-- I-- I'm sorry."

What.

She wasn't expecting that. 

Never did she expect an apology from Sandor. Shouldn't she be the one apologizing, on her knees begging anyone for forgiveness?

"All that stuff before Vancouver... that wasn't your fault."

No one has ever said that to her.

The Mogadorians acted like her legacy was a crown to be worn and rule over people with. And here was Sandor, throwing it aside like garbage and choosing to look at her without it.

The next part it so low it's almost a whisper.

"This life... it's so exhausting. Aren't you just..."

He trails off, and he doesn't need to go on because she knows. Tired. She can't remember a time when her bones haven't been tired.

She turns back from the doorway and looks at him, this weary man who tries to carry the guilt of a world on his back, who devotes his whole life to duty and succeeds and fails at the same time, who has never once stopped fighting.

She's so sick of all of it, all the fighting, fighting, fighting, because when in her life has she not fought for something, not fought to be seen, not fought to be seen as a persona, a name, a popstar, an assassin, but as a person. She truly, genuinely has been fighting to be seen as a person her entire life.And the only time she won was when a wide-eyed Cepan came to her concert. Probably one of the only people to genuinely see her as her. Not the Devektra, but just Devektra. Not the popstar, the icon, the Garde, but the person. And now he's here, once again looking for her behind what persona she's taken up.

His hope is unbearable. She turns to leave, her mind heavy with such optimistic and grim thoughts.

"I know you think it's too late, but it's not. We were never perfect, but we can still be good."

She whips her head around at the all too familiar words pouring out of his mouth, knowing at some point she must have said that. Sandor offers a side-smirk in reply.

"You've changed, but you're still the same. You still believe the same things, I know you do."

He's wrong, she thinks, I could never be good. But the smallest shred of herself wonders what if.

"We're different, but we're the same, you and I. We're not perfect, but..." Sandor trails off. She holds onto his words like a lifeline, wanting him so desperately to continue, to tell her all the things she doesn't even know about herself and ask him how he's so certain.

But before he can say any more, a dozen soldiers come barging in the room, barking orders, and the moment is gone.


	18. Chapter 15

**Day 3,505**

 

She made up some pretty ridiculous shit for what Sandor "said" during his interview.

They couldn't hear a word of their actual conversation, so there was no way to verify if what she told them was truthful. But she played the part of Mogadorian-Progress'-Number-One-Fan so well, and they were so beside themselves that this Cepan had willingly given up so much information that they didn't even consider that she could have been lying.

And it's strange.

Because for once in her life, she's felt like she did something right.

And maybe, just maybe this was the right thing to do- helping the Loric.

It's 2 in the morning, and although the base never rests, the hallways are significantly less crowded at night. Mogadorians need as much beauty sleep as they can get, apparently. It's a shame these vatborns would have to be in a coma for a century to even be remotely attractive.

But Devektra hardly sleeps anymore. Especially with her Sandor and Nine here. Her body doesn't seem to want to stop moving, her mind is always on edge. So she paces the endless hallways.

Long ago she mapped out every corner of this facility; it took her almost a year to even explore all the secret rooms and offshoots, but now she could walk through this place blindfolded.

One of her favorite spots was the dead-end on the 7th level. Conveniently, it was by one of the major meeting rooms for high-ranking personnel, so it was easy to eavesdrop. But the real reason she loved this spot was because of a broken water spicket, concealed by a large storage supply shelf, that overflowed into a small puddle. Mold grew up one of the cracks in the walls, the only green thing in this entire base. There was even an air vent nearby.

So here she is, sitting next to a mini makeshift pond and something green is climbing up the walls and a soft breeze is rushing past her neck and she feels like she's outside. Out of the base. In open air. She can't remember the last time she was outside. Or what the sun feels like.

And she thinks about the Loric, and why she's already decided to abandon them when they haven't abandoned her.

They are outnumbered and outgunned in every way, fighting a 90 degree uphill battle against a destroyer of worlds. The smart thing to do- from a survival perspective- would be to stay here and challenge nothing and live without a spine or a soul until the war was over.

But she hasn't even been doing that. she realizes. Not since Vancouver. In her own way, she's already been rejecting the Mogadorians. It just hasn't been outright. And even though it frightens her tot take such a step in the opposite direction, a step in the right direction, whats the alternative? If the Mogadorians win, her abusers win. They would ruin the Earth beyond repair and kill billions, enslaving millions more. She wouldn't be able to stomach that.

For 5 years, she's been a coward.

And her latest plan? To win back her former legacy and kill Setrakus Ra? That was the worst of them all. A plan stemming from pure rage, revenge, selfishness. She's not saying it wouldn't help to have one less Mogadorian dictator walking around, but then what? The Mogadorians have generals who would surely step up and take his place. Killing one wouldn't make them all suffer. Not enough.

And what about the kids, the Garde? Didn't they need someone to help them?

To fight with the Loric would mean acknowledging that others have the right to be just as angry as her. It would mean being an example, _leading_ them. Sacrificing herself for _them_. To fight with the Loric would mean caring about a future, caring about _life_ again. Especially her own. 

But didn't she already?

If she didn't care, would she be this torn?

_Interesting theories._

She almost jumps out of her skin.

It couldn't be.

Speaking inside her mind.

Because if it was.

If the Beloved Leader was here.

 

* * *

 

_Oh god no no. Vek it's me- it's Sandor._

She exhales for what feels like the first time in years. Telepathy with Setrakus Ra was something she never expected to experience again. But as she starts collecting the shards of her sanity from the floor, she nearly crumbles again.

_Sandor?! How are you- how did you intiate-_

_I didn't. You did._

She did.

_I did?_

_I think it was an accident. I was nodding off when suddenly I heard your voice in my head. It wasn't really a lot of coherent sentences. It felt like I was watching you think, watching you go back and forth between something._

So now he knows her conflict.

_Well I- it's not what you- I just_

_Wait a second. Is Devektra, THE Devektra, at a loss for words?_

Did he just make a joke?

_Yeah I did. I'm tired of this dramatic shit._

_Can you hear everything I'm thinking?_

Even though they're not in the same room, she's certain he's nodding. _Sort of. I think when ur deep in thought or flipping shit of some kind ur mind needs like... an outlet? And I just happen to be the lucky one here._

It must have been since they talked so much earlier. It strengthened their telepathic connection. Great.

She purses her lips together, annoyed that her thoughts are so transparent to him. But oddly enough, it's also comforting.

Maybe now that she was finally being honest with herself, she could be honest with him. 

Sandor continues. _I gotta say, I'm usually the one making a fool of myself._

_Shut up._

_Of course, that was over about decade ago. I wasn't as experienced as I am now with the ladies. Nowadays I go out and they fall all over me._

Devektra stifles a groan. Ten years and he's still a show off.

_The only thing I remember falling on you was my clothes. After you tumbled down my dressing room stairs._

_After you pushed me!_

_I helped you! Your ass would have been dust if I didn't!_

She doesn't know how, but they go on like that. She's surprised two people with so much weight on them could still be so light. To find some sort of freedom in each other despite being trapped by lives they didn't choose.

 _And by the way,_ Sandor thinks, _how much have you been working out because damn, that punch hurt._

She rolls her eyes. _It was not even a punch! It was a slap. I was trying to-_ cover up whatever motivated her to reach out and touch him _make the interview believable and all._

 _Oh, well yeah... of course..._  There's a moment of silence. _What did you tell them?_

_Some bullshit with Arctic Sea. They'll spend a couple months they figure out it was a lie._

_And what will they do then? Won't they punish you for that when they find out it's a lie?_

_Ah... with all the trouble I've caused them they'd probably execute me. But I don't plan on being here in a few months._

The leaking pipe she's sitting next to drips, a single drop of water, creating a small ripple.

Sandor is dead serious when he speaks, or rather thinks, the next words. _You're really gonna try and kill him?_

 _When the time comes, I **am** going to kill him. But... I might have a few things to do in the meantime._  

She wishes he were here so she could see his reaction. So she could see his eyes not filled with loathing for her for once. 

Footsteps.

In her hallway.

It's unusual that anyone would be here at this hour. Only when there was some serious shit about to go down.

Just as she's processing what this could mean, Sandor interrupts her.

_Life is cruel, huh? Pairing us together like this._

She'd laugh if it weren't so damn sad.

_You know, I like to think us meeting wasn’t fate._

_Oh?_

_No. I always liked to think I met you, not because of some vague cosmic idea of our entwined destinies, but because I chose you. You were there. I chose to listen._

He doesn't miss the past tense of that statement. _And_ _what do you think now?_

 _I'm not sure. I haven't thought about it in a long time._  

She can feel his disappointment, about what, she doesn't know exactly. 

The footsteps grow louder, now accompanied by scattered shouts. What exactly was going on down there?

_Do you still sing any of your songs?_

She's pulled back into her mind, to Sandor. 

It seems like such a trivial thing, but it fills her with such an immense sadness. 

 _No._ Devektra didn't think that part of her would ever come back. It felt so hollow where all that light and color used to be. 

 _I remember the one on Quartermoon._ A pause. _I hear it every night._

The warning song. One last, eerily perfect moment, before their world was snuffed out like a candle. She shudders at that. 

And the the unthinkable happens. 

He begins to sing it. 

They're not even in the same room, but she can hear his voice clear as day. 

Tears fill her eyes and Lorien rushes back to her. The happiness she felt on that planet at shows, the faces of so many fans, so many lives, swaying and holding on to a single moment, the faces of her loved ones, of all those innocent lives that didn't deserve to die. And then she feels a stab in her gut. She has betrayed them, all these beautiful people who had shown her nothing but love and life and

And suddenly she's seeing red. 

 _Stop._  

_What's wrong?_

The bombs. The destruction. A city, her city, in flames. So many lost. 

 _I can't._..

But what follows is the true nightmare. Almost a year of Setrakus Ra invading her mind, taking her life and forming it to his mold. 

Sandor says something to her that she doesn't even register. 

 _I'm **not** her! Stop trying to bring T **HE Devektra** back, it won't work._  

Stupid, stupid, she was so stupid to believe she could help when all she'd done on this planet was hurt. That was all she was made for anymore. 

_That's not what I was saying!_

She doesn't respond. 

_Devektra!_

She shuts him out. Not him. Not her name. Not that song. She couldn't be anything to Lorien, not anymore. It was too late. 

The footsteps grow louder, along with the pounding in her temples. Just as she's about to scream, 2 officers appear in front of her. There is only disgust in their eyes at her current state.

"You're wanted in Command."

She doesn't even register how they found her or why they're hauling her away. All she can hear is the hurt in Sandor's voice when he said her name.

It sounded like the end of a song.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
